by R. L. King
“I don’t know. I don’t think that’s what they were doing—that was just a side effect. Maybe my paranoia is in high gear right now—not without reason, I might add—but I think they were looking for us. Or at least me.”
Stone contemplated that, then finally nodded. “You could well be right. It did appear that they were looking for someone—and they did have your description.”
Jason put his face in his hands, kneading his temples wearily. “I dunno what the hell’s going on anymore. It’s like we’ve got a bunch of puzzle pieces, but we haven’t got a fucking clue about how they go together—or even if they go together.” He sighed. “I don’t know what to do next. It seems like all our leads have dried up. You can’t find Susanna, Arrelli’s got nothin’, and we don’t even know where the magic bums went since they got booted out of the library.”
Stone echoed his sigh. He looked troubled. “I’m sorry, Jason, but I’m afraid I have to concur. I can’t think of any other avenues to take at this point. Unless—” He looked up. “Do you have any way to get hold of anything personal of your sister’s? Clothing, a keepsake…even a photo?”
“Uh…I’m not sure. Why?”
“Well…” Stone mused, “We could always try the ritual again, only using an object of hers as the tether instead.”
Jason thought about that. “It’s worth a try,” he said. “Although if she’s with this Susanna person and she can block you, would she be able to do it to keep you from getting at Verity, too?”
“We won’t know until we try. But it’s all moot if we don’t have something to use. While it’s possible to do a ritual without a tether, it’s extremely difficult, has a much higher chance of failure, and I’d have to know the target personally and fairly extensively.”
They were pulling into Stone’s driveway now, and Jason was thinking. “When I went to the halfway house they showed me her room. There were a few of her things in there, but I don’t know if they’re still there. And since I’m still not convinced that all this shit with the fake cops and the fake murder rap aren’t somehow connected to whatever’s going on there, I’d be an idiot to show my face there again, even if they did agree to let me in.”
“Probably true,” Stone agreed. “But p’raps I can manage it.”
Jason stared at him. “You? How?”
“Leave that to me.”
He was back in an hour. Jason, sitting in the living room leafing through the used-car classifieds, tossed the paper aside. “Did you get it?”
Stone grinned. “My natural charm, coupled with a bit of persuasive magic, carried the day,” he said, pulling something from his overcoat and tossing it at him.
Jason caught it and his eyes widened. It was the small teddy bear he’d seen in Verity’s room. “How did you—?”
“Easiest thing ever. I played the role of a worried—and wealthy—father who was looking for a good place for his emotionally disturbed son to live, where they could look after him and know how to deal with his bouts of extreme depression. I assured them I’d heard nothing but glowing reviews of the place, and asked them for a tour. Dr. Delancie—you weren’t kidding: he is a pompous prat—didn’t want to give me one, said it was late and I should come back, but that’s where the persuasive magic came in. I caused a small disturbance as we were passing Verity’s door, and was able to slip in, grab the bear, and slip back out before anyone caught on.” He chuckled. “I even got to pretend to be American,” he said in a quite passable California accent.
“And they just—fell for it?”
“Like I said, I can be persuasive. I think I was helped a little by the fact that they seemed a bit off their game today. I heard one of the workers talking to one of the kids, who was asking where Charles was. He said he didn’t know, and he actually looked quite concerned, as did the boy. Apparently Charles was popular around there.”
Jason sobered. He’d almost forgotten about Charles. “So—now that we have it, what now? Are you going to do another ritual tonight?”
Stone shook his head. “Can’t. I’d need to pick up some more supplies tomorrow, and I have that meeting I need to attend.” He hooked a thumb at the paper spread out over the couch. “Find any likely prospects?”
“What? Oh—yeah, actually I did find a few cars in my price range.” He picked up the paper and waved at it. “I called a couple of these guys, and they sound likely. One’s in Sunnyvale and one’s in Mountain View.”
“Might as well go do that now, then,” Stone said. “We can grab something for dinner and that way if one of them suits your fancy, you won’t be stuck in the house tomorrow while I’m gone.”
Jason got another of his rare strokes of luck on his search—the first car he looked at, a 15-year-old, four-door Ford with a dented fender and an interior that smelled of cigarette smoke and fast food, fit his criteria. He managed to talk the guy down fifty dollars on the price, which he could just barely afford.
“It’s gonna take some work,” he told Stone, who’d hung back and stayed out of the proceedings, “but it runs, and it’s not likely to break down this week, which is good enough for now. I’d rather have a bike, but after what’s been happening lately I’d prefer to be a little more protected—and a little more anonymous.”
“I call that prudent,” Stone agreed. He followed Jason back to the house in the Jaguar, and they made it without any incidents. “I must admit I half-expected to be dodging loose parts most of the way home,” he teased when they arrived.
“Yeah, well, I’ll change that when I can. Right now all I care about is that it runs.”
The next morning, Jason came downstairs to find Stone sitting at the breakfast bar in a black sport coat and collared shirt, sipping coffee and reading the paper. “Any plans for today?” the mage asked.
“Not really. I guess I should start seeing about finding a way to make some money. I can’t stay here forever, and even if you do let me stay awhile I want to pay my way.”
Stone shrugged. “You’re a guest. I don’t mind the company. This place is pretty quiet when I’m not working, and Mrs. Olivera isn’t around.”
“I know, but it feels weird. I’m not a mooch.”
“Think nothing of it. You’re providing me with a fascinating puzzle. If you knew any of my colleagues, they’d tell you that I consider that far more interesting payment than mere money.” He glanced at his watch. “Must be off soon, though. The meetings go from ten until around one, after which I’ll pop by Madame Huan’s again and pick up some more materials. We should have our ritual going by three at the latest, so don’t go too far. Good thing I left the circle up—a few modifications, and it should adapt nicely, especially since it’s likely our last subject and our current one are together.”
Jason nodded. He hoped this would pan out, because if it didn’t, they’d truly lost their last lead.
Stone was gathering up a stack of papers and stuffing them into a battered leather briefcase. “Have fun, then. And be sure to lock up if you go out. Ah!” He rummaged in a cabinet and came up with a key, which he handed to Jason. “This will get you in through the back door.”
Jason grinned as he pocketed it. “You sure are trusting. For all you know, I could rob you blind and be out of here and halfway to southern California before you get home.”
“True,” Stone admitted, returning the grin. “But remember—you’ve no idea if I’ve nicked some small insignificant personal item of yours that I can use to track you down wherever you try to hide.”
“Good point,” Jason admitted. “I guess your bat skulls and old musty books are safe.”
Stone chuckled. “See you in a few hours. Do try to stay out of trouble.”
“Famous last words.”
Jason decided not to go out right away. He didn’t have anything pressing to do other than trying to find a job, and that would be better served by spending some quality time with the classified ads again. He took a long shower, dressed in clean clothes, found the laundry room and pu
t his dirty ones in to wash, and perched at the breakfast bar with the paper spread out in front of him.
There were a lot of jobs listed, but most of them he either wasn’t qualified for or required a far larger commitment of time than he was willing to devote until he found Verity. Ideally he’d have liked to find a part-time or occasional gig fixing cars or bikes, or something else where he could use his mechanical skills. He made a mental note to ask Stone—maybe he could check the job board up at Stanford next time he was there and see if he could find anything.
After he finished looking through the employment ads he leafed through the rest of the paper, scanning the articles to make sure no headlines like Body of teenage girl found jumped out at him. They didn’t, though there were plenty of stories of murders, traffic fatalities, rapes, muggings, and other violent crimes. There were also a few horrific and inexplicable ones, like a man flinging himself in front of a train in full view of his wife and three school-age children, two teenagers who freaked out in the middle of their journalism class and decapitated the teacher with the blade from a paper cutter, and an old man running a friend through with an antique samurai sword. The whole local section read like the police blotter from some blighted inner city—or in some cases, from hell—not from a relatively upscale collection of sleepy bedroom communities. Jason wondered what things must be like in places like San Francisco and Oakland if it was this bad here.
Once again, Charles’s words came back to him: “It’s like people just got meaner.” After being here only a few days, he could definitely see that was true. Hell, it seemed like it had gotten worse since he’d arrived. If this was a movie, the hero and his plucky reporter girlfriend would probably discover that an evil mastermind had put something in the water, or hit the whole area with a “mean ray.” Jason couldn’t help chuckling at that, even though the real-life situation was anything but funny. He knew that a lot of tempers had been frayed for years after the economy had tanked a few years back, but it was nothing like this in Ventura.
The phone rang when he was taking a break from the unending misery of the local-news section by glancing over the sports page. He listened as it rang three times, then the machine picked up. The voice spoke after the beep: “This is Sgt. Yansky of the Mountain View Police Department. I’m trying to reach Jason Thayer. It’s—”
Jason had already vaulted across the kitchen and snatched up the receiver. “This is Jason Thayer,” he said in a rush, hardly daring to breathe.
“Ah, Mr. Thayer. I’m glad I caught you,” the voice said. It sounded tired and subdued. “I’m afraid we’ve found something.”
“Found what?” Jason yelled, unable to keep his voice level.
“Well—we’re not absolutely sure, but we think we might have found your sister. We need you to—to come and help with the identification.”
Jason’s entire body froze. For several seconds he just stared at the phone, utterly numb. “You—found her?” he finally stammered. “Where?”
“Please, Mr. Thayer. I know this is terrible news, but as I said, we’re not completely sure that it’s your sister. We need your help with that. Can you come?”
“Yes, yes! Of course I can come! Where?”
Yansky gave him an address. “It’s outside South San Jose—an old junkyard.” The cop sighed. “We’ve—found bodies there before. How long do you think it will take you to get there?”
“I’ll leave right now.” Jason could barely force the words out of his mouth as the reality began to sink in. “I’ll meet you there. Where’s Lt. Arrelli? Will he be there too?”
“He’s already out there,” Yansky said. “Just check in at the front gate, and they’ll let you in.”
“All right. Leaving now,” he said again, and hung up. For several moments he just gripped the counter, his knotted knuckles turning white. Can’t lose it now. This ain’t the time. Just get out there, and hope to God they’re wrong and it isn’t her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jason was on the road five minutes later, heading south after checking the route on his map. It was several miles before he realized he hadn’t left Stone a note telling him where he’d gone, but he was too numb to care. He was too numb even to remember that the freeways usually weren’t safe, but this time of day there was quite a bit of traffic and he didn’t run into any trouble.
“Aw, man, V…” he whispered aloud. “How could I let you get yourself into this mess?” His hands thrummed on the steering wheel, trying to make the old car go faster by sheer force of will. He couldn’t shake the vision of his sister, the little tomboy sister who used to keep him company while he worked on cars in their dad’s garage so many years ago, laid out among the junked cars, bloody or burned or hacked up…his sister covered by a white sheet on a slab in the morgue, her face gray, her eyes lifeless—
—on a slab—
—in the morgue—
Wait a minute…
Holy shit!
The realization hit Jason so hard that he had to physically restrain himself from slamming on the brakes and stopping the car right there in the middle of the freeway. “Idiot!” he yelled, smacking the steering wheel hard with his right hand. “I am a fucking moron!”
He whipped the car off at the next exit and pulled to the shoulder, his entire body shaking. They’d almost gotten him that time. They’d counted on his fear and emotional turmoil to drive out any rational thought, and it had almost worked. He’d almost driven full-speed, both eyes open, into what was almost certainly a death trap.
He leaned back in his seat, willing his breath to return to normal. How had he not realized it before? He was a cop’s son, for fuck’s sake! He’d grown up with this kind of thing all his life! How many times had he heard his dad’s subdued voice on the phone, arranging to meet with a distraught parent or spouse or adult child to identify the body of their loved one who had met with some fatal misadventure—
—at the morgue.
It was always at the morgue. They would never call up somebody and bring them to the crime scene to see their loved one in the kind of state in which they usually found dead bodies. Especially dead bodies that had been dumped somewhere. What purpose could it possibly serve, other than to add to the person’s emotional agony, and possibly compromise the crime scene? If at all possible, they always waited until after the body had been cleaned, prepared, and wrapped in the white sheet. It was hard enough to look when someone you loved was being rolled out on a slab, but at least they’d do their best so you didn’t have to see the worst of it—the bloody wounds, hacked limbs, missing eyes. Jason couldn’t even imagine a police department that would call someone to the actual crime scene.
And he had fallen for it—or almost had.
So, the question was—what did he do now? He could find a pay phone and try to call Stone, though he doubted the mage would be home yet. He could turn around and drive back to Palo Alto, letting whatever ambush they had waiting for him down there at the junkyard stand around with their thumbs up their asses, waiting for a patsy who’d never show. The thought gave him some satisfaction, true. And it was probably the smartest course of action he could choose.
However…
The smallest of thoughts scratched at the back of his mind: what if you’re wrong?
What if they do do it that way up here? What if it has something to do with the fact that they’re strapped for cash and people? It would be easier to just call the relative to look at the body at the scene. Maybe they can’t afford to care about things like compassion and niceties these days.
And if he were wrong, Verity was lying dead down at that junkyard, and he just turned around and left—what did that say about him? He’d already turned his back on her too many times in her short life. Sure, he’d never meant to. It had never been on purpose. Their lives just—didn’t intersect. But that wasn’t an excuse.
He had to know.
He knew he was probably making a big mistake, but he didn’t care. He had to know
for sure.
But he didn’t have to be stupid about it, and he didn’t have to be a patsy. He’d find out, but on his own terms. He only hoped that whoever was waiting for him down there hadn’t planned for that contingency.
He started the car again, got back on the freeway, and continued south. It was another five miles to the exit he wanted, and he spent them thinking, planning, trying to anticipate potential problems. He’d only get one chance at this—if he blew it, he’d be lucky if his body ended up dumped at a junkyard. More likely, he’d probably never be found, and Stone would be left wondering if he’d made good on his joking threat to take off for southern California.
Maybe he can look in the dryer and use my clean laundry to track down my charred remains. The thought almost made him grin even in spite of it all—the thought of Stone, all serious and chanting incantations in the middle of a magic circle with candles, shafts of golden light, and a pair of plaid boxer shorts spread out in front of him like a sacred object.
There was the exit. He was south of the southernmost part of San Jose now, in an area where the terrain looked more like dusty, abandoned farmland than urban sprawl. The address Yansky had given him (he wondered if there even was a Sgt. Yansky on the force, and mentally kicked himself again for not checking) was several miles off the freeway, at the end of a winding road that led into the hills. It seemed an odd place for a junkyard, but he was moving back into a more urban area now with old warehouses, truckyards, and farm machinery sales lots, so he supposed it wasn’t that strange.
About a mile from where the map showed the junkyard to be, he pulled off the road again and evaluated his situation. He was sure now he’d been duped—if this were a real crime scene, there’d be more cars here. Still, though, the need to know drove him to investigate. He had to be sure. He couldn’t trust any of his assumptions anymore.