by R. L. King
Not surprised, Stone thought, but didn’t say. “Right then, Mr. Beal. You’ve got my numbers—best to call the mobile as I’ll probably be doing a bit of running around tomorrow. Let me know if you need me to pick you up at the airport.”
“If it wouldn’t be any trouble, I’d be quite grateful,” he said. “Again, I do hope you won’t think I’m too forward, but you can’t possibly imagine how excited I am to finally see a possibility for my research to proceed.”
Oh, I can imagine quite nicely, Mr. Beal.
He’d barely hung up the phone before it rang again. Bloody hell, I’m not going to get anything done today at this rate. If it was another reporter, he’d have to start screening them. He hit the button. “Stone.”
“Al? It’s Jason. I just heard on the news there were two more murders at Stanford. Are you okay?”
Of course—the story wouldn’t be confined to the local area. Not with the mounting heap of grisly details. “I’m fine,” he said.
“They didn’t have much on the broadcast I heard, but they said they thought it was the same guy. This is that case you were involved with, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Have you got anything new?”
“Quite a lot, actually. Listen, Jason—I’m glad you called, and grateful for your concern, but I need to be getting on with this. Please let Verity know everything’s fine here.”
“You sure you don’t want us to come up? V went off on her trip, but she said she’d come back if you—”
“No, it’s fine,” Stone assured him. “I’ve got a solid lead I’ll be talking to tomorrow. Right now, I don’t think there’s anything you can do to help, but if that changes I’ll let you know.”
“Al…” Jason’s tone took on a warning edge.
“No, Jason. This isn’t just me trying to do everything myself. At this point, it’s really more research than anything else. I’m trying to track down where this thing originated. I can’t go after it until I know that.”
“Anything I or Stan can do to help you get access to information?”
“Maybe. I’m waiting to see if something I tried this morning will pan out, but if it doesn’t, I’ll get back to you.”
A pause. “Okay. Be careful, Al. I know that’s like telling a cat not to poke his nose into everything, but…just try, okay?”
“I will do my best.”
“By the way, how’s the cat?”
“We’re—getting on,” he said, glancing up at where Raider crouched, watching him from atop his stack of papers. “How’s the girlfriend?”
“Same,” Jason said with a grin in his voice. “Talk to you later, Al.”
Stone spent the remainder of the afternoon with his notes from his trip to London, trying to decipher the incomplete message from the murder scene while fending off a suddenly clingy Raider’s attempts at ingratiation.
Dodging incessant phone calls didn’t make concentration come easily, though. He let them all go to the machine so he could screen them—he wished he could just turn the damn thing off for a couple of hours, but he didn’t want to take the chance that someone he wanted to hear from would try to get in touch with him and fail.
By five o’clock he’d made little progress on the sigils, but counted two messages from Mortenson (he’d finally called her back and told her he was fine, he knew about the murders, and he couldn’t talk right now, and hung up on her before she could respond), and five from various reporters who wanted his professional opinion on the situation. Discouraged, he took a break to turn on the evening news.
As he expected, the murders were the top story. The reporter stood in front of the building where the victims had been found; by this time most of the official vehicles were gone, but the door was still crisscrossed with crime-scene tape and police still headed back and forth in the background, and a small crowd still hovered off to either side of the scene.
They didn’t reveal much. The victims had been identified as a 24-year-old teaching assistant and a 19-year-old sophomore, but their names were being withheld pending notification of next of kin. The reporter stated that police had also not revealed the cause of death, but confirmed that “sources close to the department, speaking on conditions on anonymity, have confirmed that aspects of the murders make them consistent with the so-called ‘Bay Area Butcher.’” Naturally, they said nothing about the tall, thin figure floating away from the scene. Stone would have been highly surprised if they had.
The report ended with a canned clip from a police spokeswoman urging people to avoid being caught out alone at night, and a final statement from the reporter that university officials had made counselors available to any of the campus community who felt they needed to talk with someone.
Stone flipped channels to another news show, which was broadcasting interviews with students and campus personnel; two young women were fearfully accounting how they’d walked past that very building the previous night.
The phone rang.
Great, not again. Probably more reporters wanting him to spout pointless speculations about the cause of the crimes. He let it ring four times, then pushed himself off the couch and trudged out to the kitchen in time to hear a male voice leaving a message.
“—this is Captain Flores, from the San Jose Police Department. We spoke recently. Please call me back at your earliest—”
Stone grabbed the receiver. Had his gambit paid off after all? “Captain Flores. Sorry—I’ve been getting a lot of unwanted calls today. What can I do for you?”
There was something odd in Flores’s tone, a faint hint of hesitation or reluctance, as if he didn’t really want to say what he’d called about. “I assume you’ve heard about the latest murders.”
“Bit hard to miss, given where I work.”
“Yes. Well…I wasn’t going to do this. I still think I’m crazy for doing it. And what I’m about to tell you needs to be kept strictly confidential, do you understand?”
“Of course, Captain.”
Another pause. “It wasn’t our case, so we weren’t on the scene, but I’ve heard some very strange reports coming out of the Palo Alto PD.”
“Strange?” Stone leaned back on the breakfast-bar stool. Raider jumped up, and he idly scratched the cat’s head.
“One of our officers spotted someone at the scene that he didn’t recognize. When he confronted the man, he took off out the back door. The officer didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah. Their guy grabbed another officer, and the two of them went out the back after him. And that’s when things get fucking weird, pardon my language.”
“Indeed? Did they see something unusual?” Stone forced himself not to smile, because he knew it would come through in his voice. At the time, he’d had no idea if his impromptu plan would work, but here they were. He skritched Raider a little more energetically and gave him a thumbs-up.
Flores let out a loud sigh. “You could say that, yeah. They spotted the guy again, and this time they got a better look. They describe him as tall and skinny, wearing a long black cowboy coat.” He paused. “And they said he had…glowing red eyes.”
“Glowing red eyes.”
“Yeah, I didn’t believe it either. But it gets weirder. They both claim that while they watched, the guy grinned a big wide shit-eating grin at them, and then he lifted off the ground, floated into the trees, and disappeared.”
Stone didn’t speak for a few seconds, giving it the appropriate amount of time to sink in. “Disappeared,” he said at last. “Captain, are you certain that the officers weren’t…impaired in some way?”
“Not a chance. Would have been a hell of a lot easier to explain away if they were, but their captain swears they’re both solid, long-time members of the force with no reported issues. They were both spooked as hell, though.”
; “I…see,” Stone said. “That’s an interesting story, to be sure. But why are you calling me about it? I’m off the case, as I recall. You were quite adamant about that last time we spoke.”
“Well…I’m thinking I might have been a bit hasty about that,” Flores said. “I’ll be honest with you, Dr. Stone—we’ve got nothing on these murders, and that’s pissing me off. The whole area’s scared shitless, and I’m starting to get the feeling this guy’s taunting us. Now he’s killing them two at a time. What’s next? Three or four at a time?”
“So you’re certain it’s the same killer?” Stone asked. “Did they find the sigils at the scene? Were the bodies dismembered and drained of blood? Perhaps you’re dealing with some sort of copycat.”
“We’re pretty sure. The Palo Alto guys have seen our photos, and they sent theirs down here. Same MO, mostly, except these vics weren’t dismembered. Maybe the guy didn’t have time, I don’t know.” He paused again. “You mentioned before that you were trying to figure out what those weird symbols meant. Did you have any luck?”
“I did,” he said. “Just recently, in fact. I wanted to get a bit further along before I called you, but given the circumstances—”
“What did you find?”
“Nothing that will help you, I’m afraid. I believe your killer is using the skin and blood to create some sort of…document, or series of documents. Most likely a ritual to invoke a demon of some sort.”
“A…demon.”
“It’s all quite ancient—the language is very old, and the sigils aren’t precise.”
“What about the missing organs?”
“They’re needed for the ritual to give the demon a physical body once it’s been invoked.” That wasn’t quite the truth, of course, but it was close enough.
“And this floating guy? Do you have an explanation for him?”
“I’m sorry, Captain, but I don’t. Perhaps the killer employed some kind of hallucinogens? People don’t just float away.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” The captain sighed.
“Captain—would it be possible for me to see copies of the sigils I haven’t seen yet? I’m particularly interested in the ones from today’s murders, since they break the pattern. Two victims, no dismemberment—that might signal a change in the killer’s aims. By the way, were these new victims missing body parts?”
Pause. “Yeah. One was missing his kidneys, and the other his brain.”
The image of the man’s yawing, blood-soaked skull cavity, like a salsa bowl at a zombie party, flashed across Stone’s mind’s eye. “His brain? That seems a bit more difficult to accomplish.”
“Well, he sure as hell accomplished it, because it’s missing.” Flores sounded frustrated now. He sighed again. “Yeah, I think I can arrange for you to see the photos. You’ll have to come down here, though, and sign the standard papers. I’ll leave ’em for you at the front desk. Just show your ID to the desk sergeant.”
“I’ll come tomorrow, Captain. Thank you. If I determine anything else, I’ll pass it along.”
“Thanks. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anybody I called you.”
“It will be our little secret, Captain.”
Stone sent the receiver to its cradle with a flick of telekinetic magic, then headed back to the couch, satisfied. Pretty much everything else was going to hell, but it looked like his little trick today had worked exactly as he’d hoped it would. At least he’d get a look at the rest of those sigils.
Chapter Forty-One
The next morning, the phone ringing jolted him from an uneasy sleep.
He fumbled at the clock on his nightstand, displacing an indignant Raider who’d curled up next to him. 7:30 a.m. Who would call him at such an ungodly hour?
“Alastair, it’s Edwina. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
You know damn bloody well you woke me. “Er…Morning, Edwina. What…can I do for you?” He didn’t care that his voice sounded like he’d been gargling razor blades. If you called this early, you took what you got and liked it. She was probably getting back at him for hanging up on her yesterday.
“I just wanted to let you know that you don’t need to come up today—they’ve decided to cancel classes for the day due to…what happened. They’re offering counseling to anybody who needs to talk to someone. We haven’t heard anything official yet, but the rumors going around about the specifics of the murders are quite…grisly.”
“Uh…All right. Thanks for letting me know.” Of course, you knew my first class wasn’t until one today, so you could have walked over here and told me that and still made it on time.
“You were lucky you took the day off yesterday. It was a madhouse up here with all the police blockades and extra traffic. It took me almost half an hour just to get away from campus.”
Stone rolled over on his back with a sigh. Edwina was almost never chatty. Why the hell did she decide to change that at an hour when sane people should still be asleep? “Yes…I suppose I am.”
There was a pause. When she spoke again, her usual brisk tones had been replaced with something more uncertain. “I must admit I’m a bit frightened by all of this. To have the murderer strike right here on campus—and it sounds as if the police are no closer to catching him than they have been.”
Raider stretched, yawned, then climbed on Stone’s chest and settled into a loaf, watching him with big green eyes. I think I liked you better under the armoire, he thought, but nonetheless didn’t shove him off. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Edwina, honestly. The odds of being attacked, even by someone like this, are fairly astronomical against. Just don’t wander about alone. You’ll be fine.” He added before he thought: “If you need an escort to your car and I’m around, just let me know.”
Her tone softened a little. “Thank you, Alastair. I appreciate that. But you shouldn’t be wandering around on your own either. So far, all the victims have been men. Obviously this killer has no trouble overpowering his victims.”
“I don’t plan on taking any chances.” He rolled over, once again dislodging Raider. “Anyway, thanks for calling, Edwina. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to sleep.”
He hung up and regarded Raider. It would be tasteless to call it a stroke of good fortune that he didn’t have to go in to work today, but given that he still needed to pick up the photos from the San Jose police department and finish his research at the Rosicrucian Library, not to mention that he expected to hear from Simon Beal sometime this afternoon, it certainly made things more convenient. He wondered what time Beal would be in. Much as he hated to drag himself out of bed this early, he probably should get on with it. Archie, he suspected, didn’t sleep.
He listened to the news channel on the radio on the way down to San Jose an hour later, picking his way through the stop-and-go commute traffic down 101. The Stanford killings were still the top story, which was a good thing—it meant that Archie and Co. hadn’t stepped out for another round of murder and mayhem the previous night. The reports didn’t say much they hadn’t already said; Stone had long since discovered that American newsreaders were great at recycling the same message in twenty-seven different flavors when they didn’t have anything new to report, which was annoying to anyone trying to follow the story.
They did release one bit of new information, though. Police were looking for a possible person of interest in the case: a tall, thin, pale man last seen wearing jeans, a white shirt, and a long, black cowboy-style coat. For once, Stone was glad for the heat of the summer, which meant he’d left his own long black coat at home. The last thing he needed was for someone to ignore the “cowboy” part and mistake him for the suspect. Especially since he was planning to walk right into the police station as soon as he made it to San Jose.
Picking up the photos was easier than he expected—all he had to do was give his name and show his ID. He signed the proper fo
rms and the bored-looking morning desk sergeant handed over a sealed manila envelope with STONE scrawled on it in Sharpie with barely a polite nod before going back to his own stack of files and morning newspaper.
Stone’s mobile phone buzzed as he was heading back out. He picked up his pace and got outside before the third ring. “Yes?”
“Dr. Stone?” Beal’s cheerful, bouncy tones came through the tiny speaker. “This is Simon Beal. Is that offer to pick me up at the airport still on the table?”
“Absolutely. Are you already here?”
“My flight is boarding any minute now, and I should be at SFO by eleven.”
Stone glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. Getting down here had taken him a while, and getting all the way up to SFO would take even longer. So much for going to the Rosicrucian Library—but if luck was with him, his conversation with Beal was much more likely to prove productive. “Give me the airline and flight number. I’ll be waiting.”
“Oh, excellent. Thank you so much. I’ll be staying at the Royal Crest Hotel in Palo Alto—overnight, at least. Longer if it turns out we can be of significant help to each other.”
“I hope we can. I’ll be waiting, Mr. Beal.”
“Oh, please—call me Simon. I’ll see you soon.”
Stone wondered how he’d recognize Simon Beal since he’d neither asked for a description nor provided one of himself, but it turned out he needn’t have worried. The man stood out from the morning crowd of tourists and tech workers like a stripper at a revival meeting.
The first descriptive word that came to Stone’s mind when he spotted the old man was “elfin.” He was perhaps five-five, with a sprightly spring in his step, a full head of silver-white hair, and a deep, leathery tan. He wore the kind of tweed jacket sported by every cliché of an academic ever described, complete with suede elbow patches, brown pants with cuffs, and polished brown wingtips. He carried an old-fashioned accordion-fold leather briefcase stuffed so full that it seemed as if it should be too heavy for him, but he appeared to have no trouble managing it.