“My name is Marlin. I am searching for my master.”
“Who?”
“Merlin, the greatest sorcerer ever. You might have heard of him.”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“Don’t be daft, man, everyone’s heard of him.”
“Not me.”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Belt.”
“Belt? Who was your wife, Suspenders?”
“Don’t have a wife.”
“What a surprise.” Marlin sighed. “I have traveled far and would appreciate partaking of your hospitality.”
“What?”
“Could I have some water? And maybe a bit of food if you can spare any.”
“Oh. Fine.” Belt held the flap aside so Marlin could duck into the hut. There was little inside except a ring of stones for the fire and a straw pallet to sleep on. A rabbit as dead as the one the witches had used in their brew hung from the roof, only this rabbit had been skinned and gutted. “Dinner’s right there.”
“Looks delicious.” Marlin had always found rabbit to be too stringy, but at this point he couldn’t be choosy. The water looked even less appetizing, as cloudy as Rampart City’s harbor. At least it was wet, which quenched the dryness in Marlin’s throat. “So, how long have you been here, Mr. Belt?”
“Long time.”
Marlin sensed he wasn’t going to get much in the way of conversation out of this man. “What about your neighbors?”
“Don’t know.”
“Mind if I ask how you came to be here?”
“Don’t know.”
“Great talking to you.” Marlin leaned back against a dirt wall of the hut. He turned away with disgust as Belt tossed the rabbit into the fire in order to cook it. The smell of cooking meat caused saliva to again flood Marlin’s mouth. He had forgotten how gross and yet delicious food could be. As he waited for the rabbit to cook, Marlin wondered if there were any women nearby so he could satisfy another need he’d neglected in four thousand years. A proverbial roll in the hay would be just the thing.
Despite being blackened on the outside, the rabbit was still pink on the inside. Marlin ignored this as he bit into the leg quarter Belt gave to him. For a moment the food stuck in Marlin’s throat before his muscles remembered what they were supposed to do. “Good,” he said. Belt only grunted at this. “I suppose I ought to be going soon.”
“Good luck finding your master.”
“Yes, thank you. And thanks for the meal.” Marlin ducked as he exited the hut. He took a look back, but Belt did not emerge to wave goodbye. “Such a friendly neighborhood,” Marlin grumbled and then continued along the path.
Chapter 6
It was Becky’s last day at work before the wedding and a week-long honeymoon in Costa Rica. She would have her hands full at that point to keep Steve in the hotel room. With so many plants and animals in the jungle, she wouldn’t see him again until it was time to leave should he escape from the hotel.
This was only one of her many worries as she ostensibly prepared Councilwoman Napier’s schedule for the next two weeks. Much of this schedule would be rendered moot if there were a crisis, as was almost certain to happen. In Rampart City politics it never paid to plan more than three days in advance. At least this would give the rest of the staff some idea of what to do when they didn’t have to manage whatever crisis came up.
As she always did, Becky considered why she bothered to do this. She had hoped in spite of herself that perhaps she could affect some change from within, but the city’s politics were as dirty as ever. The only way anything got done was to grease enough palms. Even Napier, who was better than most of the city’s politicians, took bribes in the form of free vacations for “conferences,” one of which was scheduled at the same hotel where Becky and Steve would honeymoon. It was no wonder the city needed a masked vigilante to get anything done.
That masked vigilante was another problem that distracted Becky from her work. Emma had disappeared for much of the party and then returned hours later with mud on her dress and some flimsy excuse that she had needed some fresh air. Becky had only pretended to buy this excuse; she knew the real problem was that the man Emma loved had married someone else. There was no use to talk about the problem with Emma until she was ready to cope with it. What would happen to the girl while Becky and Steve were on their honeymoon? Becky didn’t like to leave Emma alone in such a delicate state, but her friend was twenty-four years old now, not a little kid.
Becky sighed and shook her head. In her mind Emma would always be that shy little girl Becky had met in kindergarten. Emma was still so naïve and innocent, despite that for five years she’d seen the gritty underbelly of society as the Scarlet Knight. No matter how magic the armor or sharp the sword she carried, there was always that sensitive core in Emma that hadn’t changed even after she lost her parents. Becky hoped it never did change, because that’s what made Emma the person she was.
But, like any mother with a child about to leave the nest, Becky knew she couldn’t protect Emma from the world. This had started when Emma left for college, first at Northwestern and then at Berkeley. Those had been difficult years for both of them, lonely, painful years. They had somehow managed to get through it with their friendship intact, but Becky had promised herself when her best friend returned to the city not to let her get too far away again. Perhaps Becky couldn’t protect Emma from the world, but at least she could be there to pick up the pieces.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice said.
Becky looked up to see the woman responsible for the turmoil in Emma’s life. “Can I help you?” Becky asked.
“Yes, my name is Isis Dreyfus. We met briefly last night at the museum gala.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now. Is there something I can do for you?”
“My husband and I recently moved to the city. I wanted to involve myself in some charitable endeavors. When I spoke to the councilwoman last night, she said I should talk to you about it.”
Becky frowned at this. If this bitch wanted to really do a good deed she should divorce her husband and take the next flight back to Egypt. “I’m not sure exactly what I can do,” Becky said. “Did you have something particular in mind?”
“I’m not sure. Do you have any suggestions?”
Becky swept aside some papers on her desk to retrieve an old campaign brochure. “This lists some of the charitable causes Councilwoman Napier has been involved in. Maybe one of these will interest you.”
Isis took the brochure and tucked it into her purse. Then she looked down at the floor meekly. “Thank you, Ms. Beech, for your help.”
“No problem.” Becky waited a moment for the woman to leave, but she didn’t. “Was there something else?”
To her surprise, Isis burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to embarrass myself this way.”
Becky stood up from behind the desk to pat Isis on the back like a small child. “It’s all right. Come on, let’s go somewhere and talk.” She led the woman into the break room. The one intern at lunch beat a hasty retreat, which allowed Becky to close and then lock the door. She sat Isis on one of the plastic chairs in the room. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, it’s nothing much. I feel so lonely here.” Isis dabbed at her eyes with a paper napkin. “I don’t know anyone here.”
“I see. Well, I’m sure you’ll get used to it in time.”
“Yes, perhaps you’re right. In time maybe I’ll make some friends and feel at home.”
“Would you like something to drink? A cup of coffee?”
“Thank you.”
Becky poured two foam cups of coffee, which she supposed was a form of revenge in that the coffee in the office was lousy. As she took these back to the table, a plan formed in Becky’s mind. “My sisters and I are going out tonight for a party. You could come along with us if you’d like.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude—”
“It’s not an intrusion.
We’d love to have you along.” What Becky really would love would be to leave Isis in one of Rampart City’s worst neighborhoods and let her fend for herself. But the second, far more ethical idea was that if Isis came along for the party, she and Emma might work out their differences. Dinner, a few glasses of wine, and maybe they could come up with some kind of truce. A truce Becky would broker, her most important political work yet.
***
One perk of being an assistant director was Emma could take a longer lunch if she so desired. She didn’t usually need more than a half-hour to eat a sandwich or drink a protein shake at her desk before she went back to work. Today she decided to take a long lunch to visit Mrs. Chiostro and her sister. Under her arm she carried the white dress from the night before.
“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Chiostro said. “Did something happen to the dress?”
“It got a little dirty. And there’s a tear in the skirt.”
“Let me have a look at it.” Emma followed Mrs. Chiostro into the parlor, where the old witch took the dress to examine it. She clucked her tongue. “What were you doing last night?”
“I had to go visit the Sanctuary. To check for any major crimes.”
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Chiostro said in a tone that indicated she didn’t believe this at all. Never a gifted liar, Emma was even less gifted when she tried to lie to the witch.
“Dan’s wife was there.”
“I see. She must be the one Marlin was talking about last night.”
“Marlin? Did he come to see you? He thought there was something wrong with her, but he wouldn’t say what.”
“I’d keep an eye on that one if I were you.”
“You think there’s something wrong with her too?”
Mrs. Chiostro said nothing for a moment as she straightened out the wrinkles in the dress. “I can’t be certain. Could be she’s exactly what she claims to be. Or she could be something else.” The old witch draped the dress over a mannequin. She looked up to ask, “What do you think about her?”
“I don’t know. She seems a little off, but maybe that’s what I want to think. Maybe I want her to be evil so she won’t be with Dan.”
“That could be.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“It’s difficult to say, but I think you should listen to your head and not your heart. Should be easy enough for you.”
“I’ll try.” This didn’t seem easy to Emma; in this case she found it extremely difficult to think logically. She had last night down in the Sanctuary. It had pained her greatly to do so. She wanted Isis to be guilty of something, to be a monster like Marlin said. Objectivity, she reminded herself. That was part of the Scientific Method, principles that had governed her life since she was a child.
“That’s a good girl. Now, why don’t you go down and see Sylvia while I fix this dress up for you?”
Emma went downstairs to Sylvia’s salon—bunker was more appropriate. She expected Sylvia to say that Emma should stab Isis in the heart or beat her to a pulp. Instead, the witch’s face turned sad as she ran the brush through Emma’s hair. “Agnes is right,” she said. “You have to think rationally. Dan is happy with her, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Emma said. She blushed as she thought back to the gala and how happy they had looked as they danced. “He loves her.”
As she began to rinse Emma’s hair, Sylvia said, “Then you have to let them be.”
From the pain in Sylvia’s voice, Emma wondered what the old witch was hiding. “I understand.”
Sylvia growled, “Find another man. There’s plenty of them to go around.”
“Not like him.”
“Oh, right, love. If you want my advice, forget about it. Love is nothing but a pain in the ass.” Sylvia jerked Emma’s head up so she could see into the mirror. “What do you want me to do with it?”
“I’m not really sure.”
Sylvia took a handful of wet hair. “How about we go with something a little shorter? Make you look a little more like a grown up.”
Emma considered this. She had always worn her hair long, usually because she couldn’t be bothered to take time to get it cut. Maybe it was time for a change, a break with the past. “All right,” she said. “Let’s give it a try.”
They didn’t make much conversation as Sylvia worked. Emma didn’t want to distract the witch as she worked with the scissors. Instead, she thought about Isis and the situation with Dan. Maybe the witches were right and she needed to think logically about this. If she talked with Isis, perhaps they could hammer out their issues. Their previous interaction had been brief and not gone well mostly, Emma hated to admit, due to her jealousy. If she could keep it in check, then she might get an honest appraisal on the woman and the danger she posed.
“All done,” Sylvia said.
Emma looked in the mirror and fingered the shorter cut that brushed against her shoulders. The witch was right that it did make her look more like an adult, more like the assistant director of a museum. “It’s great,” Emma said. “Thank you.”
“I’ll make sure to dispose of all this hair for you. Never know what someone could do with that if they were inclined.” Sylvia and her sister were experts on that.
“Thank you.” Emma went upstairs, to where Mrs. Chiostro gushed over her new haircut. She had repaired the slight tear and gotten out the stains on the dress so it was good as new.
“Make sure you take good care of it from now on.”
“I will. Thanks.” With that Emma returned to her motorcycle. As she put the helmet over her head, she noted how much more comfortable it felt. That would probably be a good thing for later on when she donned her other helmet.
Back at the museum, she found Dan eating his lunch on the museum steps. He nodded to her. “You must have got a haircut,” he said.
She blushed at this. That he would notice this was a reminder of why she had loved him in the first place. “I thought I’d try something new.”
“It looks nice.”
“Thank you.” Emma stared down at her feet as she felt a surge of embarrassment. “I better get back to work. See you later.” She hurried back to her office, where she dropped with relief into her chair. She shook her head; it would take more than a haircut to fix things.
***
Captain Kramer hated to work late. He often told his wife he needed to work late but usually this was a cover to meet April at the Paradise Motel. Those nights he really had to work late meant a phone call to an irate April, who would start to suspect him of an affair with his own wife. That in turn would mean an expensive gift, though usually he could find something in the evidence locker of suitable value to win back April’s love.
He didn’t have much choice this time. The Vendetta case was the biggest in the history of the Rampart City Police Department. Everyone from internal affairs, the state troopers, and the FBI were monitoring the case.
And there was that damned woman detective—Donovan. She had watched him like a hawk since this whole thing started. Then again, she always worked late. She probably hadn’t been with anyone since she was in the academy. The department had to literally force her to take a day off, no matter how many times Kramer complained she made the department look bad with her overzealous dedication to the cause. He had said as much to the promotion board, not that they listened to him.
To emphasize this point, she knocked on his door. “Don’t you ever go home, Detective?”
“Not until she’s in prison,” Lieutenant Donovan said.
“That might not be for a while yet.”
“Then I might stop paying my rent, sir.”
Captain Kramer shook his head at this. “Is there something you want?”
“I want to interview her again.”
“Why?”
“To see if she’s ready to crack. She might be more receptive now that she’s had a few days in here.”
“Fine. Just don’t leave any marks. And I don’t want her lawyer in here screami
ng at me again. Got it?”
“I understand, sir.” The lieutenant hurried away and closed the door behind her. It didn’t stay closed for long.
Kramer heard the creak of the door and assumed it must be Donovan again. “Forget some—” He looked up to see it was not Lieutenant Donovan but a young Middle Eastern woman, a very beautiful Middle Eastern woman. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I believe you can,” she purred. She approached his desk slowly; her hips shook in rhythm with her long hair. “You are Captain Kramer, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, Miss—”
“You can call me Isis,” she said. She came to sit on the edge of his desk, her breasts so close to his face that he could almost taste them. Her hand reached out to touch his arm. “Are you in charge of the Vendetta investigation?”
This killed the erection in Kramer’s pants. Was she from internal affairs, the state police, or the FBI to smoke him out? Or maybe she was with the mob to assassinate him. He wanted to reach into his desk for his pistol, but her hand clamped tightly around his arm. “Let’s not be hasty,” she said.
“What do you want?”
“Only your help.”
“Who sent you?”
“No one sent me. I’m a concerned citizen making sure an injustice isn’t committed.”
“Right. Who are you working for? IA? The troopers? The Feds?”
“Of course not.” She ran her hand up his arm and reached into his shirt to stroke his chest. “I told you already: I’m a concerned citizen.”
The erection he’d lost started to build again as she gently caressed his chest. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing much. Just a teeny, tiny thing.” She leaned forward until her lips touched his ear. “The key to the evidence locker.”
“What are you going to do?”
“The less you know, the better.” Isis reached into her purse to produce what looked like a credit card. It wasn’t until she pressed it into his hand that he saw it was a key to the Paradise Motel, the same place he took April. “How about a trade?”
“A trade?”
“A key for a key. You give me the key to the evidence locker and I give you the key for this room, where I’ll let you read me my rights.”
Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Call Page 60