“I don’t understand?”
She rolled her eyes. “See, this is why I didn’t get into it last night. It’s complicated. The guys can fill you in later, but basically, all you need to know now is that Ursula is supremely gifted. She’s the most powerful non-deity entity in the universe, and she got that way by acquiring the four prime essentials plus one, the quintessential.”
“Oh, so she’s a pentacle prodigy.”
“Yes.” She gathered her brows tightly. “You know about the Pentacle Prodigy?”
“Of course. I read the Grimoire.”
“Well, I’m impressed.”
“Thanks, but I don’t see the big deal. So she’s a prodigy now.”
“No. She’s the Prodigy.”
“All right, the Prodigy. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s a bad thing, because she doesn’t want to be the Prodigy.”
“Can’t she give it up?”
“It’s not that simple. For starters, she can’t give the quintessential away to just anyone. It has to be someone who already possesses the four prime.”
“I see.”
“And of course we wouldn’t want to do that anyway, because then we’d have another Pentacle Prodigy on our hands.”
“And that would be bad because?”
“Because no human was ever meant to have such staggering power and responsibility.”
“Apparently Ursula was meant to have it.”
“She was, yes, but that was so she could defeat the resident evil threatening to take over the universe.”
“The devil?”
“Close. My mother.” She turned and gestured toward a mason jar in a display case across the room.
“What? You mean that’s Gypsy?”
“Uh-huh.”
I shook my head at the implications. “I’m not ready to go there right now, am I?”
“No. Neither am I. Look, the thing is, that Ursula and I need to find four qualified candidates to take ownership of the prime essentials, assuming we can figure out a way to pass that ownership on to them.”
“Wait. You mean to tell me you don’t know how you’re going to do that.”
“Didn’t I mention this was complicated?”
“Yes.”
“All right, so cut me some slack. If we can figure out a way for Ursula to transfer the essentials to four responsible guardians, then she can at least work on managing the quintessential.”
“Even then,” said Dominic, “I’m not happy about it. The quintessential is a powerful force in its own right. Frankly, it scares me.”
I laughed at that. “You?” I said. “Talk about a powerful force. Try living with Lilith for a month.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Really? Well….” I glanced down at my watch and up at Lilith. “You do what you need to do, Lilith. I have a meeting with Captain Zevic in forty-five minutes. I have to take a shower.”
I turned and started away when Lilith grabbed my shirtsleeve and pulled me back. “Wait.”
“What.”
She ran the back of her hand across my cheek. “Lose the beard. You look like a caveman.”
“Oh? You don’t like it?”
“No.”
“Hmm…I don’t know. I was thinking of keeping it.”
She turned to Ursula and hooked her brow. “Urs? Would you mind?”
Ursula snapped her fingers. In a blink, my beard and mustache were gone. I looked at Dominic. The expression on his face seemed to be saying, I told you so. I rubbed my naked chin and said to him, “I see what you mean.”
Chapter 4
Less than an hour later, I was standing in the captain’s office, looking smart in a pair of khaki trousers, tanned loafers and a new polo sweater that I picked up at Burdines on my way in. Except for my unusually long hair, which Ursula left untouched, I believe I looked better than I had in years...or weeks, as Lilith would undoubtedly remind me.
“Tony!” Captain Z came around his desk to deliver a smile and a hug. “I can’t believe it,” he said, slapping me on the back. “What a great surprise it was to hear that you were…well, not dead.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It was a great surprise for me, too.”
“Please.” He pointed to one of the chairs facing his desk. I sat and waited for him to reclaim his own.
Captain Z had an easy disposition and a soft smile that made it easy to talk to him about almost anything. He was married, with grown kids and grandchildren, the framed photos on his desk and walls standing testament to that. Carlos used to call him Z-man, which may be where he came up with Jerome’s nickname, J-man, as his affection for both is equally genuine.
“So, Tony,” Z said. “Carlos tells me you’ve been wandering the woods with amnesia for the last month.”
“Yes, that’s right. I guess that explosion at the research center gave me a concussion of sorts. It’s crazy. I didn’t know where I was, who I was.”
“Strange.” He picked up a pencil and began tapping the eraser end on his blotter. “Didn’t you have your badge and ID with you?”
“No,” I answered, thinking quickly and wishing I had thought through my story more thoroughly beforehand. “My clothes had caught fire. I don’t remember much, but apparently, I ran into the woods, stripped my burning pants off and fell to the ground unconscious.”
“How terrible,” he said, although the conviction seemed lacking in his voice. “How long were you out?”
I shook my head and surrendered a weak shrug. “I don’t know, a day maybe longer. I remember waking up extremely thirsty, ant bites all over me. I didn’t know where I was, who I was. I couldn’t remember a thing.”
“You were in shock.”
“Yes! Yes, I believe I was. For a while, I just sat there in the woods, wondering what to do next. As nightfall drew near, I decided to start walking. A couple of hours later, I found myself at the doorstep of a local mission. They took me in, gave me clothes, fed me and gave me a bed to sleep on.”
Z seemed skeptical. “They didn’t offer to take you to a hospital?”
“Oh, but they did. It’s just that…” I dropped my gaze to the floor and gathered my brows in contemplation. “I thought I might have done something wrong. I knew that some of my wounds were powder burns, consistent with explosives. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where an explosion would land me in the woods, except maybe if I fell out of a burning plane.” I laughed dully to indicate I was kidding.
“Anyway, I thought if I just had some time to sort it all out, then maybe I’d figure out who I was, where I came from. I thanked the folks at the mission for their hospitality and left before they could call the authorities. For the last several weeks I’ve been wandering the streets like a bum, begging for spare change, living on handouts.”
“You’ve lost a lot of weight.”
“Yeah.” I patted my stomach and smiled tightly. “My wife’s working on that.”
He returned the smile and slipped the pencil back into the pencil cup. “At what point did you regain your memory?”
“Yesterday,” I said. “It’s funny. I woke up in the park, the sun shining, birds singing. A jogger came along, trotting down the sidewalk with his dog. He nodded as he passed me and said, ‘Good morning, Detective.’’’
“He knew you?”
“I guess. He was gone by the time it struck me. As soon as he said detective, a deluge of memories began flooding back to me. Before I knew it, I remembered everything.”
“That is amazing,” said Z. “So; do you think you’re ready to go back to work?”
“Oh, absolutely, sir.”
“Great. I imagine in about three or four days we can start you back to full duty and—”
“Three or four days?”
“Yes, of course. You didn’t expect to start today, did you?”
I shrugged. “Well, I don’t see why not. I feel good. I’m ready to get back to it.”
“No. You may think yo
u’re ready, but you’re not ready until the doctors say you’re ready.”
“Doctors?”
Z rocked his chair forward and planted his elbows on his desk. “Tony, you’re going to have to report to Doctor Sloan for a complete physical, top-to-bottom.”
“But I feel great.”
“That’s good. I’m glad to hear it. Then after your physical, you can report to Doctor McMillan.”
“The shrink?”
“He’s a psychiatrist.”
“But Captain, I’m fine. I told you I remember everything.”
“I’m sorry, Tony. This is out of my hands. You’ve been through an extraordinary ordeal. We have to make sure you’re physically and mentally fit before we put you out on the street with a gun again. Besides, you’re off the payroll. You’ve been declared deceased. I only hope your wife’s benefit checks haven’t started going out yet.”
“Captain, maybe you can make an exception in this case. I really think the best thing for me now is to get back to work as soon as possible so I can—”
“It’s done,” said Z, slapping his hand on the blotter to stop me. “You’ll get back to work soon enough, Detective. Is that clear?”
I fell back in my chair, spiritless and weak. “Yes sir.”
He let the moment simmer before giving up a sigh. “Look, Tony, I’ll see what I can do to hurry the paperwork along. In the meantime, I can’t do a thing until you complete your physical and psychological evaluations. So do yourself a favor, get down to the hospital right away and get started on that. Okay?”
I forced a smile and stood. Captain Zevic did the same. “Thank you, sir.”
I left his office, filled with anger and frustration. I don’t know why. I knew Z was only doing his job. Still, I couldn’t help myself, and sought relief in kicking the shit out of a wastepaper basket sitting out in the hall by the elevator doors. Unfortunately, instead of relieving my anxieties, all it did was add guilt to my ever-growing list of insecurities.
Thanks to Doctor Sloan’s professional relationship with the department, I was able to get in to see him after only a half hour’s wait. For as long as I can remember, Sloan’s been the unofficial doctor of choice, the go-to doc for nearly every cop in the precinct. He specializes in conducting the mandatory annual physicals and, for a price, if you have reason to worry, has no problem giving a cop a clean bill of health, so to speak.
It was for that reason, and the c-note in my wallet, I wasn’t worried about satisfying the requisite of the physical. Still, old Doc Sloan made a good effort of going through the motions for the sake of a good show.
“Tony, you’ve lost some weight.”
He always did have an acute sense of the obvious. “Yeah, Doc, a little,” I said, stepping off the scale and taking a seat on the examination table.
“Captain Zevic tells me you’ve had a recent bout of amnesia. What caused that, head trauma?”
“Yes, apparently I experienced a mild concussion from an explosion.”
“Concussion, eh?”
“I think.”
He checked my pulse, blood pressure and temperature. “Getting any sleep?”
I lied. “Oh, sure. Lots.”
“Headaches?”
I lied again. “No.”
“Any bruises, aches or pains?”
More lies. “Nope.”
“Fatigue? Trouble concentrating?”
It was as if the sonofabitch had read my mind. Still, the lies kept coming. “Uh-uh, nothing like that. I feel great. My mind’s sharp and I’m good to go.”
“Hmm,” is all he said about that. He asked me to remove my shirt, and then proceeded to check my arms, chest, back and neck. “What are all these? Bug bites?”
He was talking about the nicks and welts from moss mites, warrior ants, dragon tics and goliath moths. “Yes,” I answered. “The mosquitoes are crazy around my house this time of year.”
He knew they weren’t mosquito bites. He gave me an agreeable, “Ah-huh.”
Lastly, he took out his penlight and shined it in my eye. I can’t explain what happened next, except to say that I freaked out, completely. I pushed him away, screamed something about photon bursts and then cowered behind the examination table like a scolded dog.
“Detective!” Sloan cried. “What are you doing? Are you all right?” He came around the table and crouched beside me.
I remember looking around as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing happened. Then it came to me, slowly. In the Eighth Sphere, there are these rare but extremely dangerous events known as photon bursts, usually followed by a singeing wave of intense heat energy that rakes across the terrain, burning a path of destruction as far as the eye can see.
The moment I realized what had happened, I looked up at Doctor Sloan and returned a timid smile. “I umm…I guess you’re wondering what all that was about, huh?”
He shook his head and smiled back. “All what?”
He offered his hand and helped me back to my feet. I came around the examination table and reclaimed my seat there. Sloan pointed to my shirt. “Okay, Detective. You can put that back on. I think we’re done here.”
He picked up his clipboard and began checking off boxes and scribbling notes while I dressed. I didn’t think any of it was good news for me, but I had to ask. “Well, doc. What do you say? Are you going to clear me for work?”
He looked up from his clipboard and smiled curiously. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
I took the c-note out of my wallet and handed it to him. “I think yes.”
He folded the bill and stashed it in the top pocket of his lab coat. “We’ll see you next year,” he said, handing me a script.”
“What’s this?”
“Just a formality. I need you to report to radiology for a cat scan of your brain.”
“Why?”
“You said you had a concussion. We have to make sure you’ve suffered no long-term brain damage.”
“Is it too late to tell you I didn’t have a concussion?”
He shook his head. “Detective, you’ve had amnesia. A CT scan will tell us if there’s any organ damage or swelling. It’s quick and painless and could almost have been done by now. Now go. There’s been a cancellation this morning. I’ve already made the call. You can get in right away if you hurry.”
I thanked him with a handshake and headed for radiology.
CT scans are nothing new to me. I’ve had them before and I knew what to expect, or so I thought. What I didn’t expect was how that loud, infernal knock the machine makes would drive me up the wall. It sounded just like the rhythmic thump the malodytes make when beating on their war drums. I tried convincing myself I had nothing to worry about, but the instinct to react proved too great.
“Mister Marcella, please.” said the technician, her soft voice carrying over the intercom in a dreamy hush. “You must remain extremely still.”
“Sorry,” I said, but the sweat was rolling down my forehead and into my eyes, making me want to shake my head violently.
I began having flashbacks of an encounter Jerome and I had with a wounded malodyte near the campsite of the old prospector, Yammer. We had practically stumbled into his lap. If not for the wound in its leg, I’m sure it would have killed one or both of us.
The malodyte had seized my arm and pulled me in without warning. It was just about to bite my head off when Jerome jabbed his spear into the pustular-swollen wound in its leg just above the dead gangrene tissue. The creature wailed in pain, threw its arms out in hopes of catching Jerome, and in the process, allowed me to escape.
What followed was a ten-minute barrage of stoning; as Jerome and I hastily collected rocks, sticks, and anything else we could get our hands on to throw at the animal. We eventually forced it flat to the ground where we could more effectively direct our assault. A single blow from a breadbox-size boulder to its head finally finished him off.
We ate well that night, the thought of gangrene in the meat su
pply notwithstanding. Of course, we cooked it thoroughly. The next morning we heard the war drums. The malodyte tribe had found the remains of their comrade. They hunted us down for days. If not for the network of portals in which we had become so familiar, I’m sure our luck would have eventually run out.
“Mister Marcella?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll only ask you one more time. Please remain still.”
“Sure,” I said, and I proceeded to play dead, just as I had done a thousand times before in the worse case scenarios when the matter of life and death presented itself. Oh, how often it presented itself.
After the scan, I reported to Dr. Michael McMillan’s office. As psychiatrists go, this guy was cool. He outfitted his waiting room with large TV screens, depicting picturesque scenes of utter tranquility.
One showed an ocean tide lapping a sandy shore. Majestic palms along the beach swayed to the push of a gentle breeze.
Another depicted a forest floor with afternoon shadows muddying the colors of late autumn leaves carpeting a well-beaten path.
A third screen, its image instilling a sense of false memories in my brain, centered on a lone angler rowing his boat on a placid lake in the morning mist. I remember thinking how much I wanted to be that man, how I wished his serenity was mine.
“May I help you?”
I turned suddenly, only then noticing the receptionist sitting behind a bar-height counter framed in oak. Her practiced smile and easy eyes seemed perfect for the setting.
“Yes, hello there.” I picked up her nameplate and set it back down, “Rebecca. I’m here to see Dr. McMillan. Is he in?”
“That depends. Do you have an appointment?”
I looked around. There was no one waiting in the reception area. “Why, is it possible my having an appointment would dictate if he were here or not?”
“It would help.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have an appointment, but my boss told me to come here.”
“Your boss?”
“Captain Zevic, from the police station.”
“Captain Z!” She smiled for real this time.
“Yes, Captain Z. I’m Detective Marcella.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so, Detective? Please have a seat. Doctor McMillan will be with you shortly.”
BURY THE WITCH: Book 10 (Detective Marcella Witch's Series) Page 4