by Alexie Aaron
“Well, yes.”
“And still you put me in his way?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why.”
“Was it a test? Did I pass?”
Nash sat up and held onto Clara before she could bolt. “I’m a self-destructive, insecure man who’d rather run than fight. I have no idea why Kalaraja thinks I’m a knight. I’m a coward when it comes to emotional pain.”
“No. You stood your ground in my living room. That was very brave,” Clara said. “I’m very happy you confessed this to me. I love that you can be brutally honest. I don’t need someone to soothe my ego at this stage of my life.”
“In the vision, you were happy.”
“Then I was looking at you. I suspect that your friend Kalaraja has something to do with some of the visions.”
“Maybe,” Nash said and yawned. “It’s late, and I have to be at the bookshop for an early shipment.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“I’m counting on it,” Nash said.
Clara got up and helped Nash to his feet. They wandered the apartment locking up and turning out lights. By the time Clara got out of the bathroom, Nash was lying there with his eyes closed. She looked down at him and smiled. He was a challenging man, but he filled her soul with happiness. She lay back and sighed happily.
“Who are you thinking of?” a sleepy Nash said.
“Wendell of course.”
Nash rolled over and pinned her down and started to tickle her. Clara laughed.
“No fair, no fair,” she repeated, giggling.
Nash stopped and looked down at her before he kissed her. “I’m a knight. I don’t have to play fair.”
~
Kalaraja had waited in the darkness to see that Clara arrived home safe. He saw that Wendell’s car was followed by a sedan. He arrived at the Baumbach home in time to see Wendell enter his office. The sedan was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t get a bad vibe from the occupants of the vehicle, but one had a faint residue of evil clinging to her. He didn’t see them close enough to tell who was who. He would mention it to Joon-ki. He would ask the knight if he could tap in and see if anyone filed a report on tailing Wendell and Clara on their date.
Nash had called him and told him, at first, Clara wouldn’t tell him where they went. Later, he told Kalaraja about Wendell taking Clara to Dave and Buster’s. “He didn’t want his mother to know how he had been spending his time.”
“I won’t tell her, but I will tell her that her son doesn’t seem to be involved with Horace.”
“How did Clara take you being in her apartment?”
“Well enough. She did tear me a new one for putting her in that position with Wendell in the first place and then another one for how I treated Wendell. I think she sees something in him that isn’t there.”
“Now, Nash.”
“Anyway, I promised to play nice with the goof if we meet up again.”
Kalaraja rode his elevator past his stop. He got out and walked over to the roof access. He climbed the stairs and stepped out onto the platform a previous owner of his building had used for a helipad. He angled his head, trying to see if he could zero in on the book. There was just too much interference. In the west, a storm was brewing. All the electricity in the air made it almost impossible for him to see what he needed to see.
If he was going to locate the book, he needed to visit the victims and, hopefully, pick up the trail that evil things leave when they move. Fortunately, alchemy’s residue had a distinct glow in the ether. If you mixed the blue of the coldest of hearts, the black of empty souls, and just a tinge of the green of life, you would have the color of evil.
~
The twisted fingers rubbed the stone wall until there was enough friction. The old man then snapped his fingers, and a small ball of light floated, suspended between the wall and himself. He looked down at the rough desk and waited until the ink flowed, saturating the pages of the yellow pad with letters. The letters separated and became words. Horace’s little soldier was reporting in. He looked as the same word repeated itself. STUCK. STUCK. STUCK.
Horace extinguished the light and put away the yellow pad. He returned to his bunk and stared up into the darkness. His eyes still reflected the light he put out. The coldness of the chamber increased as he drew energy from the air. He tried to visualize where the book was, but the house hadn’t been built yet when Horace was arrested. The woman who was his target seemed to be a good candidate. The expense she went through to hide her years must also hide dark desires.
He had been pleased when the Voorhees woman killed her tormentor. Inviting Kabir over to participate in his secret desire of improving the Egyptian form of embalming was inspired. After, he watched as the two fornicated in the bathtub full of blood. Horace almost enjoyed the visions as much as he did watching Marianne Irving debase herself over and over with crude dirty men and women off the streets. Marc Davis was one of his triumphs. He had no idea that desire would outweigh the pain the man went through to stop himself from speaking. His deep dark secret was that he hated himself for speaking, especially when he didn’t have the materials to back up his arguments.
It took him many years to unearth the book from where it had been resting after the boy overdosed. Instead of being energized by the loss of life, it was being depleted by the man who now held the heart of the victim in his chest. Each day Nash Greene lived, it took more and more power to move the book. If he could get to Greene and influence him to act on his dark desires and end his sad life by ripping the foreign heart from his chest, then the book would be unstoppable. And once it made its way across the country to Horace, Horace would be immortal.
He sensed that the Order was getting wise to his actions. He should have taken the needle away from Voorhees. Alive she would have perhaps covered up her crime, giving him time to get to Greene. But no, the woman was horrified by what lay on her dining table. She made her way to the dark streets and purchased what she needed and returned home and purposefully shot too much into her veins. When Voorhees’s light went out, the unbalance woke Kabir.
Horace tried to reach out to Wendell, but Catherine’s protection was too strong. He would have to bide his time and hope the Kis woman would finally open the package and free the book. Until then, he returned to replaying Marianne’s adventure in his mind.
Chapter Twenty-three
Jones sat with the department’s forensic expert Dr. Mason and had him go over the last of the findings personally with him.
“There was semen mixed with the blood from the bath inside of Monica Voorhees. Trisha Prue was not interfered with sexually.”
“Was Monica raped?”
“I could find no tearing I would associate with a forced sexual encounter.”
“I see there is a DNA match with Kabir Patel.”
“Yes. We also found his DNA on the canisters, the clothing, and on kitchen utensils used in the interfering with of Trisha Prue’s dead body.”
“Any other DNA present aside from Prue, Voorhees, and Patel?”
“Just your officer and yourself. Also, there was trace of the maintenance manager, but you explained this in your report?”
“How do two people drenched in blood walk through the city and no one see them?”
“That’s not my area.”
“Anything in common in Voorhees’s and Patel’s tox screen that would explain his loss of memory?”
“We didn’t do a complete workup on Patel, and by the time you found Voorhees’s body, he would have metabolized some of the common culprits. We did, upon your request, have a better look at Marc Davis’s lab results but could not find anything either. If there was a drug agent used to rip or suppress the memory of these individuals, I haven’t found it or have any facts to point me in a direction to look.”
Jones sat back and shook his head. “This is going to be a nightmare for the DA’s office.�
�
“It’s almost unheard of, but…”
Jones sat up and looked at the man.
“I did some forensic archival work, first locally, and then expanded my search. There has been a series of unexplained amnesia cases associated with small groups. There is a pattern, but it’s a weak one. It starts in 1970 in Pennsylvania and shows up every five years or so, moving in this direction. There is a death in every occurrence, but there hasn’t been a reported homicide that couldn’t be explained by the suicide of one of the members of the group.”
“When was the last occurrence?” Jones asked.
“At a northcentral Chicago high school, teenagers got caught up in a slam book situation and had no memory of participating in the criminal acts that were attributed to them. One boy died a brain death, huffing poison in a plastic bag. His name was Ron Santiago.”
Jones did his best not to react. He nodded and managed a sigh. “Thank you, Dr. Mason, for taking time away from your impossible schedule. Your extra research is appreciated by myself and my team.”
“In my job, I deal with absolute facts, but part of me has been creeped out by whatever is going on right now in this city,” Dr. Mason admitted.
“We see it, feel it, but without facts that will stand up in court, the DA can’t prosecute it. Monica Voorhees killed Trisha Prue and then killed herself after she and Kabir Patel played with her body. Kabir absolutely has no memory of this. He’ll get charged with interfering with a corpse, but I have no evidence he was there when Trisha was killed. The present state of his mind will probably get him either a trip to a mental facility or a suspended sentence.”
“What about Marc Davis?” Dr. Mason asked.
“He’s going to a facility to work with occupational therapists and eventually will get dental surgery to have permanent dentures put in. He’ll not be charged. I think whatever happened to cause him to mutilate himself was a one-time thing. I see a lot of therapy in his future.”
“So when do you disband your team?”
“Today. My group still thinks that there is something going on, but without a crime that can be charged, we’re to move on to other matters.”
“If I get wind of anyone else dealing with something along this line, I’ll drop you an email.”
Jones stood up and shook Dr. Mason’s hand. The two walked out together and parted at the elevators. Jones walked into the incident room where Officer Blunt was removing documents from the whiteboard.
“Hold up. Team, I’d like to give you some information before thanking you for a job well done.”
Brenda walked over and sat down next to Ria Molina who was yawning. Sergeant Dahlberg was holding up a finger until the printer finished.
“Sorry, Detective,” he said and pulled the material out of the machine.
“No problem. First, let me tell you what I have learned from Dr. Mason.”
The group listened, and even though eyebrows were raised at the DNA evidence, these people were seasoned professionals and knew there was no way Kabir Patel was going to be charged with any more than interfering with a corpse. “All we have is speculation.”
“I was able to get Wendell Baumbach’s gaming history from Dave and Buster’s,” Dahlberg said. “He was there when he wasn’t at home with his mother. To get the high scores he has, he probably has been a regular for years.”
“What about Nash Greene?” Brenda asked.
“He’s a concern only because of the heart connection. Is it just coincidence? I don’t think so, but the paranormal element keeps me from insisting we stay on this case. There is a backlog of crimes better suited to our skill set. Is this black leather book the cause of these crimes? I don’t know. All I know is that, it is the one thing all these people have in common.”
“I’m concerned about the old lady we dropped off last night,” Molina said.
“Elma Kis,” Brenda supplied.
“If you want to have a uniform stop by and check on her, that’s fine with me.”
“I’ll do it,” Brenda volunteered.
“Good.” Jones looked at the group. He could see an uncertainty in each of their eyes that he needed to address. “Sometimes we run up against things that we don’t have the resources for. I’m going to give Father Saul a call, and if the church wants to continue, then it’s up to them. I, for one, am going home and turning on the television. I’ve had it with books for a while.”
~
Clara helped Nash bring in the books as the book agent unloaded them from his van. The pull cart was made to easily navigate over the threshold and through the front door. Clara insisted that Nash allow her to be the “help” and do the heavy lifting. Once they had all the books inside, he closed and locked the door. They still had an hour before opening.
“I don’t expect to get these all on the sales floor. If possible, I’d like to get them put into the computer system before the weekend.”
“Just tell me what you want me to do,” Clara said.
“First, put these gloves on,” Nash said, handing Clara a new pair of bright green, chemical-resistant, nitrile gloves. “If there are any allergens or chemicals on the books, they should protect you. Sometimes, when my agents come across books that have been in storage lockers that have been bug-bombed, they air them out, but there can be residue on the covers. We wipe them down with…”
Clara listened to Nash’s instructions. Today, he was confident because he was in his element. The Knight of Pages was bringing the outcasts into his sanctuary.
“When you’re done, place them on the credenza behind the sales counter, and I’ll judge their value and put them in the computer. I’ll divide them between these three bins.”
Clara looked at the bins. They all looked alike.
Nash put a hand on each one. “Backroom, sales floor, and attic.”
“Gotcha.”
Nash picked up a book that had been wrapped separately. He examined it before he walked over and handed it to Clara. “Happy Anniversary.”
“What?” she asked, looking at the first edition of Good Omens.
“One week since our first kiss.”
Clara was so touched. “I love you,” she said, reaching up and kissing Nash.
“I was hoping it would come in today’s shipment. I’ve been looking for it since you mentioned it.”
“I intended to buy it,” Clara said.
“Now you’ve discovered the perk of having a bookseller for a lover.”
“All the books I can read?”
“Just the special ones.”
“What is your favorite meal?” Clara asked. “I’d like to cook for you in return.”
“I want you lying on a bed of…”
“Nash…”
“Could it be a pie instead?” he asked. “I haven’t had an apple pie in years.”
“I shall bake you a pie. May I use the phone before I get back to work?”
“Be my guest,” Nash said, amused that Clara took his being boss in the bookshop seriously.
Clara pulled out her cell and dialed the restaurant. “Vinnie, Clara. Could you deliver a deep-dish pie tin and…”
Nash listened to Clara as he worked. Within minutes, she had organized her kitchen staff to deliver what she needed to the bookshop. She put the phone away, donned the gloves, and worked until there was a tap on the door. Johan stood there with a large basket.
“Johan!” Clara said and opened the door and hugged the older man. “I missed you.”
“I assumed so. Hello, Nash, has my executive chef been behaving herself?”
“No.”
Clara put her hand on her hips.
“She went out with a competitor of mine last night,” Nash tattled.
Johan looked over at the outraged Clara. He knew Nash was teasing her, but did Clara?
“He offered me a steak instead of dodgy boxed pancakes,” Clara said.
“I’d go too,” Johan said. �
�Well, give me a kiss, and I’ll be off. Vinnie is sweet on our new pastry chef. I have to keep an eye on him at all times.”
“Vinnie is eighty years old,” Clara explained. “He hit on me my first day and received a cold dishrag on the back of his neck for his trouble.”
“It cooled him off. Will I see you Saturday?” Johan asked.
“Bright and early,” Clara said, kissing Johan on the cheek.
“Good. Remember to err on the side of cinnamon.”
“Yes, boss,” Clara said, walking him out the door.
The door closed, and Nash saw Johan lift Clara’s chin and look her in the eyes. He wasn’t sure he’d want to be a bug on the wall listening in on their conversation. Johan’s interest in Clara was parental. She looked like a scolded teenager by the time she reentered the store.
“You can leave the door unlocked,” Nash said.
Clara nodded but didn’t speak. She grabbed the basket and her book and ran up the stairs.
Nash was about to follow her when she came back down with a fixed smile on her face. “How’s the oven here for baking?”
“Don’t know?”
“Would I have an unreliable oven in a place I rented?” Kalaraja asked, standing at the door.
Clara hunched her shoulders. She put her gloves back on and continued to wipe down the covers of the books.
Kalaraja looked at Nash and frowned.
“Clara, would you get me the Brothers Karamazov from upstairs. I’d like to compare it to this one,” Nash requested. “It’s supposed to be in fiction, but sometimes, it migrates to philosophy.”
“Sure thing,” she said and ran up the stairs.
“What’s wrong?”
“Johan said something to upset her. She called over to get a pie tin so she could bake me an apple pie. Outside, he had words with her.”
“It’s up to you to soothe her. Remember, because you’re a couple, you should always be the shoulder she needs, even when she doesn’t want to talk about it.”
Nash nodded.
Clara came back with the book. She had the oddest look on her face. “I found it in thrillers.”