by R. L. King
“Well…it does beat the alternative.”
“This isn’t funny. It’s…I don’t know what the hell it is. But is there something you’re not telling me? Does V know?”
Clearly, Stone’s normal flippant humor wasn’t going to do the job here. He sighed and looked at his hands in his lap. “The truth is, Jason, I don’t know the answer to that.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He spread his hands. “I don’t know. You’re not wrong. It’s been on my mind too. Especially since there was actually one other time the same sort of thing happened.”
“There was? When?”
“I don’t want to go into detail. It happened while I was…away for a while. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because it was a highly unusual situation. The one at the concert was…less unusual, but like you, I was willing to believe that Verity’s healing skills made the difference. She’s bloody good—between her healing and her alchemy abilities, I could rationalize she was the reason things didn’t go completely pear-shaped.”
“But now…”
He shrugged. “But now, I’ve got no idea what the hell is going on. Verity wasn’t there to patch me up. I don’t think anybody did. I suspect they probably whacked me over the head, threw me in their trunk, and drove me off to that hillside. And if they buried me, that probably means they think I was dead.”
“But obviously you weren’t.”
“Obviously. Perhaps they were bad at checking. Or perhaps I was so far gone that for all intents and purposes I was dead. If they were mundanes, they couldn’t have checked for a faint aura.”
Jason leaned back in his chair. “So we’re back to the original question. How did you do it? You said mages live longer than mundanes, but you never said anything about them being…”
“Being what? Obviously not immune to damage. We can be injured just like mundanes. And it’s true mages heal faster than mundanes—but…” He stood. “This is uncharted territory, Jason. Like I said, it’s been troubling me as well. But as much of a scientist as I am most of the time, I don’t aim to do any field tests in this case. So I suppose for now it will have to remain a mystery. I’m much more focused on finding the man who took Tyler Ellerman and probably these other boys too—and especially on why he did it. I still think that’s the key.”
Jason didn’t look like he wanted to let this go, but finally he sighed. “Okay. Fine. You don’t want to talk about it, I’ll respect that. I hope you can get somewhere with Blum’s artist. Maybe if we’re really lucky, the guy’s in the system somewhere.”
“I doubt we’ll be that lucky, but I can hope. Oh, and Jason?” Stone turned as he reached the door.
“Yeah?”
“If you don’t mind, please keep our little conversation between us, will you? Whatever is going on with me, I’d rather it didn’t get out. Even with Amber.”
“Yeah, no problem. Even with V?”
“For now, yes. Thank you. And now, I’ve got a phone to procure. I hope they can transfer my old number and data over, or things are going to be very inconvenient for a while.”
It was an amusing thought—okay, maybe amusing wasn’t the right word but he couldn’t think of a better one—that his lack of a cell phone was proving more inconvenient than being nearly murdered and buried alive.
Life could indeed be strange sometimes.
19
Blum’s retired sketch artist lived in west San Jose, in a neat little tract house in an older neighborhood near Prospect Road. His wife, a brisk-looking black woman in her early seventies, answered the door. She looked Stone up and down and smiled. “Please come in. Bill’s out on the patio, since it’s such a nice day.”
“Thank you. I hope I’m not intruding.” Stone had used a small illusion to touch up the fact that he still looked tired and paler than usual.
“Oh, no. Bill was excited that he could help. He gets bored painting still lifes and landscapes all the time.”
She led him through a neat living room tastefully decorated in old-fashioned style, and out a sliding glass door. “Dr. Stone’s here, honey.”
Bill looked up from the sketch he was working on. “Ah, right on time. I like that. Good to meet you, Dr. Stone. Bill Laverty. Leo speaks very highly of you. Have a seat.”
“That’s a surprise,” Stone said with a chuckle. “It’s a pleasure.” He took the indicated seat and studied the man. He looked like the typical retiree: paunchy, gray-haired, with wire-rimmed glasses, baggy pants, and a pale green polo shirt. Stone didn’t miss the sharp intelligence in his dark eyes, though. He might have let his body go a bit, but not his mind.
“I’ll bring you two something to drink and get out of your hair,” Bill’s wife said.
Bill watched her fondly. “She takes good care of me.” Then his tone changed to something more businesslike. “Leo tells me you’re looking for a kidnapper.”
“Yes. Not officially.” He briefly explained how he’d been consulting with Tyler Ellerman’s parents before the boy had been found.
“If the kid’s back home safe, why are you still involved? I’d think the police would be handling it. The Feds, even, since the boy was taken across state lines.”
“They are, of course. But I’m the sort who doesn’t easily let go of things. As long as I stay away from the official investigation, there’s no harm in my doing a bit of amateur sleuthing, is there?”
Bill’s eyes narrowed. “Amateur sleuths can get themselves in trouble.”
Like being buried alive? Stone thought, but didn’t say. “Yes, well, I doubt I’m in any danger. Perhaps we should get started? I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
“I got all the time in the world, don’t you worry about that. Don’t retire, Dr. Stone. If you’re anything like me, your work’s your life. When you put it away, your whole life changes, and not for the better.”
“I completely understand that. No plans to retire anytime soon. Shall we?”
Bill put his current sketch, of a pair of birds at a feeder, aside and pulled up a large pad and a collection of pencils and charcoal crayons. “How do you know what this man looks like? Did you see him somewhere? I hope you called the police, if you did.”
“It’s…complicated. I don’t know how much Detective Blum told you about me.”
“Not much. Just that you two had worked together before. He said you’d tell me the rest, whatever I needed to know.”
“Yes. Well…the truth is, I saw the man’s face in a dream.”
Bill paused in the act of picking up a pencil. “A dream.”
“I know you probably don’t believe me, and that’s all right. Most people don’t.”
“So you’re…a psychic.”
“Yes, I suppose you could call me that. It’s not quite accurate, but it will do to be getting on with.”
Bill didn’t reply for a while, replacing the pencil and selecting a different one. “I’ve dealt with psychics before.”
“Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?”
He let out a long breath. “I’m a churchgoing man, Dr. Stone. I know there are a lot of things out there we’re not meant to understand, and I know we’ve located suspects based on information provided by people like you. So I’m not going to argue with it. I’ll keep my personal beliefs to myself, but I’ll also keep an open mind.”
“That’s all I can ask for.”
Bill’s wife came out carrying a tray with a pitcher of ice-cold lemonade, two frosted glasses, and a plate of sugar cookies. She placed it on the table next to her husband, patted him on the shoulder, flashed Stone a smile, and bustled back out.
“Okay,” Bill said as he poured lemonade for both of them. “You just start describing this man. Start with the shape of his face, and we’ll go from there.”
Stone leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes so he could concentrate on his mental picture better, and began his description.
Bill worked quickly and efficiently, occasion
ally stopping to switch to a different pencil or piece of charcoal. After every few strokes, he’d stop and ask Stone for clarification, sketching in the man’s features and making changes according to Stone’s corrections.
After half an hour, he’d finished his preliminary drawing. He turned the easel toward Stone. “There. How’s that look?”
Stone stared. The likeness was remarkable—he could see why Blum respected this man’s skills. Somehow, he’d managed to take the vision in Stone’s head and turn it into something tangible. It wasn’t photorealistic, but anyone looking at it would be able to recognize the man it depicted if they saw him. “That’s him. That’s…amazing. I’m impressed.”
Bill chuckled. “Thank you. I might be retired, but I haven’t lost my skills. If you’re sure that’s accurate, I’ll clean it up and finalize it. Leo said he wanted a copy too.”
“Of course.” Distracted, Stone leaned in to study the image. It showed a man somewhere between an old fifty and a young sixty, with a lean face, long nose, high forehead, and piercing eyes. With features like that he could have looked harsh and cruel, but he didn’t—in fact, he appeared rather pleasant, with the kind of grandfatherly half-smile a man might bestow on beloved children. He certainly didn’t look like Stone’s idea of a kidnapper—but then again, there wasn’t a “typical kidnapper” look, as far as he knew. “What do I owe you, Mr. Laverty?”
Bill waved him off. “Nothing. I’m glad to do it, especially if it helps catch this guy. You just be careful, okay? I wasn’t kidding when I said amateur sleuths can end up dead. Real life’s not like Murder, She Wrote. These kinds of folks are dangerous.”
“I promise I’ll take every precaution.” Stone stood. “Thank you again.”
Back at the agency, he found Jason and Gina poring over a large whiteboard with annotated clippings taped all over it.
“Aren’t you supposed to have little bits of string connecting all of those?” he said with a chuckle.
“We’re not done yet,” Jason said without looking up. “Did you get your new phone and talk to the sketch guy?”
“Yes to both. Stopped and picked it up earlier today. Top of the line model, with all the bells and whistles. Cost me a fortune, but that’s all right. Especially since they did manage to transfer my old number and data to the new one, and deactivate the old one—though I suspect the old one’s at the bottom of some lake by now.” He walked up behind them, studying the board. It included a fairly accurate sketched map of the United States, with photos of each of their suspected victims, obviously pulled from internet news stories, taped to the locations of their kidnappings. Notes next to each indicated names and dates, and the printed stories about each were attached around the edges of the map. “You two have been busy.”
“Yeah, we finished up the embezzlement thing, so we’ve been doing some work on this. Not getting much, though. So far, I’m not seeing too much in common.” Jason pointed at one of the clusters. “The kids aren’t all the same age, and Gina hasn’t turned up anything yet connecting any of them. No friends, family, or acquaintances in common. None of them ever lived in the other areas, or anything like that. Far as we can tell, there’s been no contact between any of them.”
Stone leaned in closer to examine the images. They were in color, but most of them were grainy, showing the typical formal school portrait every kid in America had sat for at some time during his or her school career. They ranged from cute to plain, chubby to skinny.
“So far,” Gina said, “the only thing we’ve found in common with them is they’re all boys, and they all come from families with money. But that second part’s not too surprising.”
“A lot of money?” Stone asked. “Are they all wealthy?”
“I wouldn’t say wealthy—not all of them. Some, yeah. But their parents all had good jobs.”
“But there were no ransom demands.”
“Not for any of these, no,” Jason said. “I checked around a little and asked Blum to check too. No demands were ever made. The kids just disappeared, then reappeared two or three days later with no memory of where they’d been.”
“Always that amount of time?” Stone focused on the kids from the Bay Area: Tyler Ellerman’s familiar face was next to two others boys around the same age.
“Yeah. That’s fairly constant. Two days usually, three in a couple cases. Is that relevant?”
“It might be. If he’s testing for something, it might take time for the results to come back.” He shot Jason a look; he didn’t want to mention magic with Gina around.
“Yeah, that makes sense, I guess. Hey, can we see the sketch?”
Stone pulled it from his briefcase and held it up. He had the original, since he’d commissioned it—Blum would get a high-resolution copy. “Pleasant-enough-looking bloke. Certainly doesn’t look like he eats babies for breakfast, does he?”
Jason took it gingerly between two fingers and laid it out on a nearby table, where he and Gina examined it. “Anybody recognize him?”
“Not me.” Gina pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of it. “I’ll see if I can do any image matching when we’re done here, but don’t hold your breath.”
“We should probably show this to Marta’s people,” Stone said. “To verify it’s the same person they saw.”
“Yeah. I’ll take care of that. Just let me grab a copy of this before you take it. What, Gina?”
Stone glanced over at Gina, who had bent suddenly for a closer look at the sketch. “Got something?”
Without replying, she turned back to the board with all the photos. “Probably not, but I just noticed something all the victims have in common. All but one, anyway.”
“What’s that?” Jason asked.
“They’re all blond.”
Stone stared. “Bloody hell, you’re right. How did we miss that?”
With the exception of the boy who turned up in Milwaukee, all eight of the other kidnap victims had varying shades of light-colored hair.
“So he’s got a type,” Jason said. “Some kidnappers do. But we can’t exactly tell the cops to put out a bulletin for parents to keep their blond sons at home until we find this guy.”
“True,” Stone said. “I don’t know how much it’s going to help at all—there are too many blond boys out there, so even if he is focusing on those and only near public portals, it still doesn’t get us very far.”
“Maybe he lost a child, and he’s looking for a replacement,” Gina said. “That happens occasionally, though I think it’s usually more women than men.”
Stone exchanged glances with Jason. Without the additional bit of vital information—that the kidnapper was likely looking for magical talent or some other arcane trait—Gina was fairly hamstrung in how much help she could be. He wondered if it might not be worthwhile to have a chat with Jason about letting his assistant in on the game. It would certainly make things easier, but it wasn’t something that could be done lightly. And certainly not without a lot of thought.
Jason sighed. “Okay, well, there’s no point in you sticking around, Al. Blum will get that photo circulated, and I’ll take a copy over to Marta’s people to see if it’s the same guy they saw. I don’t see much else we can do at this point, do you?”
Stone didn’t, and that was frustrating. He’d thought they were finally making headway, but now it appeared they might be at a dead end, at least until Blum got back to them on whether the man in the sketch was in the law-enforcement system. “Fine,” he said. “I suppose I could do with a bit more rest, and get back to my…other project for a while. Let me know as soon as you find out anything, will you?”
“You got it.”
“How was the house, by the way?”
Jason grinned. “Amber loves it. She says it needs tons of work, but as soon as she got out in the trees, she felt like she was home. Sounds like we might be looking at buying a house.”
“Brilliant. I’m glad things are going well in at least some aspects of life.”
20
A few more days passed, and Stone’s stress level increased. At first, he didn’t know why—it might have been because neither he nor Jason nor Blum had any success turning up information about the man in the sketch. He wasn’t in the system, which meant he’d never been arrested for anything. Blum checked the sexual-predator database without much hope, and likewise came up with nothing. “If he’s out there,” he told Stone when they chatted briefly one afternoon, “he’s keeping his nose clean.”
“Or he’s hiding under some assumed identity—possibly more than one.”
“Yeah, or that. I’ll keep looking from my end, though it’s harder to do anything officially. The Feds have fully taken over the case now, and since Tyler Ellerman is home safe and they have no way to tie this to those other kidnappings, I doubt it’s the highest thing on their priority list.”
Stone thought for a while that his growing stress might be connected with what had happened to him. His headache faded to nothing after a couple of days, and as far as he could tell he wasn’t experiencing any vestigial mental slowness or other symptoms that might indicate he’d been injured worse than he thought. That in and of itself bothered him. He should be experiencing those symptoms. The fact that he wasn’t raised questions he wasn’t sure he was prepared to try answering. Not yet, anyway.
He sent copies of the sketch to Eddie and Ward, asking them to circulate it around to anybody they thought might recognize the man, but didn’t have high hopes. British and American magical societies didn’t mix all that much, and his friends’ expertise was almost fully on the other side of the pond.
Aside from them, he sent copies to Reverend Blodgett back east, Jasper Lewis in Dallas, and the proprietors of the pub in Chicago and the all-night deli in New York City where the public portals were located, asking them to keep an eye out for the man. He also checked with Marta Bellwood, verifying Jason had given her a copy and asking her to forward it to the other portal keepers Stone didn’t know. Maybe if they could make travel inconvenient enough for the guy, he’d slip and make a mistake—or just stop snatching kids. The latter wasn’t the best solution, since Stone believed he’d start again once the heat was off, but a lull to give them more time to work this out was better than nothing.