He snorted. ‘Old families – old and dignified Weyrd in particular – don’t like to acknowledge anyone who marries out of the fold. They sure as hell don’t like the children of such marriages.’
I couldn’t disagree with that, but I managed to refrain from saying that not too many Normal families were delighted by it either.
‘My wife was disowned and neither of her parents ever came to visit our son. No one came to his christening; no Christmas or birthday presents ever mysteriously appeared on the doorstep.’ He stood and paced. The Weyrd weren’t too keen on either christenings or Christmas, but again, I kept my trap shut. I was doing so well.
‘My son is without anchor, Ms Fassbinder. He’s found no place to belong. Perhaps if his mother had . . .’ He broke off.
I said softly, ‘And what did you do, Mr Baker? To help him?’
He didn’t look at me and he didn’t answer. I thought I had a fair idea of Baker’s parenting style: all the expensive gifts in the world, pocket money equal to a middle manager’s weekly salary, a car – everything except love, approval and support. Everything except friends, the ability to fit in, a place to feel at home. All this made me even more convinced the kid had run away – but I could see Anders Baker didn’t want to admit that, because then it would mean having to take the blame.
‘I’d like to have a look in his room,’ I said. ‘And I’ll need a photo of your son – if you’ve got one.’
He ignored my snipe and led me back to the hall and up the curving stairs, along so many hallways and turns I was certain I’d never find my way out again. I’d have to phone Ziggi for assistance, but he might not make it soon enough. I could only hope I wouldn’t need to go full-on Lord of the Flies and kill and eat Baker in order to survive . . .
There was nothing out of the ordinary in Donovan’s room – well, nothing for a rich kid. The furniture – sleigh bed, bookshelves, desk, the doors of the built-in wardrobes, dressing table – was all dark cedar, and none of it looked like something a kid would have chosen for himself. There were no posters hanging on the walls, but a Stratocaster with Eric Clapton’s signature on its white face, a Turner, a Van Gogh and a Rembrandt charcoal sketch made for interesting viewing. There was an enormous flat-screen TV connected up to every games console imaginable, and discreetly recessed speakers in the ceiling said the space was wired for sound. Interestingly, there was no computer; Baker said it was the only thing missing, so presumably the boy had taken it with him.
‘There’s been no ransom demand?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. If he’d been kidnapped, surely that would be the first thing they’d do?’
I answered with a question: ‘No withdrawals from his bank account, no credit card usage, no calls on his mobile?’
‘I told you, nothing.’
‘What did the police say?’
‘Like you, they think he’s just run away from home.’
‘Mr Baker, surely you’ve got enough contacts within the department to get some pressure applied?’
He looked away as he replied, ‘I didn’t want . . . A police investigation might—’
—might reveal things he didn’t want uncovered. Things connected with his business interests; things more important than his son. It must have been killing him not to be able to lord it over the cops.
‘Right. Hence the private investigators.’
While Baker reached for one of only two photo frames on the desk, I quickly went through the drawers and cupboards. The place was clean, with not even the tiniest hint of illicit drugs, no hidden bottles of booze, no cigarettes, either traditional or wacky, no painkillers in the bathroom.
A quick glance at the remaining photo showed Dusana with a very young, white-blond Donovan on her lap. Baker handed over the picture he’d pulled from the frame. It looked recent: father and son were smiling in that awkward manner of men who really didn’t want to touch each other. Donovan, even with his hair turned middling brown, bore more of a resemblance to his mother: a pretty kind of boy with no outstanding features.
I stared around the room, then looked closely at the king bed. There was a lump at its foot, tucked under the forest green duvet. Few things in the world are less appealing than a young single man’s sheets, but I steeled myself and pulled them back. A pile of dirt, threaded with shreds of rubbish, sat on the crisp white, inordinately high thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, almost as if a scrub turkey had taken up residence and started making a nest.
I glanced at Baker, but he shrugged and waved his hands as if to say, What are you gonna do? Boys, hey?
‘And you’re sure your son has had no contact with his mother’s family? Or with anyone else from the Weyrd world?’
‘I told you, no,’ he snapped. ‘The Nadasys showed no interest in either me or my son. Besides, they disappeared years ago, after Dusana . . . They’ve got to be dead by now.’
I moved towards the door and he grabbed at my arm, fingers pinching into my flesh. ‘What are you going to do?’
I wrapped a hand around his wrist, applied just enough pressure to remind him how strong I was, and peeled his fingers away. ‘Mr Baker, don’t touch me again, or we’re going to have a problem.’
His eyes narrowed; he wanted to hurt me, but he was at least smart enough to realise that wasn’t a battle he’d win, at least not without some kind of large gun and a head start. He rubbed at the spot where bruises would soon come up, and repeated, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Be patient, Mr Baker. I’ll be in contact.’
Outside I tried to breathe in fresh air, but the breeze carried nothing but stench, probably from the mudflats, where stranded fish were doubtless bloating in the winter sun. Though I hadn’t bothered to shake Baker’s hand as he saw me out – not that he’d offered it – I thought I’d mostly done a pretty good job of playing Miss Manners, especially in the face of some challenging behaviour. Baker was a shitty parent, to say the least; in fact, I’d say he was a shitty human being all round. I’d have walked for good, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. I had a feel for the boy now, for what his life had been like, and sympathy got me every single time. I could have ended up like him, as unloved as he was, if my grandparents had been any different. If they’d had smaller hearts and narrower minds, if they had not simply accepted me for who and what I was, I too could have been Donovan Baker, with a Weyrd’s strength and a hateful attitude to the world.
The guard had left her booth and was standing beside the taxi; it looked like she and Ziggi had been chatting. I couldn’t say she looked any more pleasant, however, and that was definitely the evil eye she was giving me as I approached.
I chose to smile; I was becoming the queen of affable. ‘I was wondering what you could tell me about Mr Baker’s son?’
Her pissy expression wavered; she was still reluctant to share.
I tried again. ‘That’s why I’m here, to try to find him, and I could really use your help. Let’s face it, parents don’t know their children, but you – you see the boy coming and going, and maybe he talks to you ’cause you’re youngish, you’re pretty—’
She wasn’t sure whether to take offence or not, and frankly I wasn’t certain either, but I kept going. ‘Does he have any friends his father doesn’t know about? Anyone he was hanging out with before he went missing? Anyone he might go to?’
Relenting, she said, ‘Look, he’s a lonely kid – there are no friends. A few months ago he mentioned wanting to find his grandparents – his mother’s side.’
‘Baker said they were dead.’ Then I remembered his exact words . . . got to be dead by now.
‘I don’t know what the boss told you.’ She was shutting down. ‘All I know is that’s what the boy said to me.’
‘Where was he looking?’ I tried to draw her out, but she was closing in again.
‘He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. It’s not like we were best friends, okay?’
I clasped my hands together behind me to keep from wrapping th
em around her throat. ‘Did anything unusual happen the day he went missing?’
‘Lady, he went out one night and didn’t come home. Just had the laptop bag over his shoulder, nothing else.’
‘Thanks for your assistance,’ I said, and couldn’t help but note Ziggi’s astonishment at my restraint.
As I settled onto the back seat I asked, ‘What were you talking about?’
‘New-model Tasers,’ he replied, then followed with, ‘Are you on Valium?’ which I didn’t dignify with a response.
We left the Islands faster than we’d entered and I recounted my conversation with Baker. Repeating the story confirmed to me that there was no proof anything untoward had happened to Donovan Baker, but the sense that something wasn’t right had only increased.
‘So what are you thinking?’ Ziggi nodded to the guard at the main gate as we hit the Sovereign Mile.
‘Everything. Nothing. I’m thinking about what the Archivist said about golems, about the sort of person who might lend themself to such a being.’
There was a long pause before he said, ‘That’s a pretty big leap, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking. The kid didn’t have any contact with the Weyrd.’
‘You heard Blondie: he talked about looking for his grandparents. If they aren’t extant any more, maybe some of Dusana’s old crowd kept an eye on the boy . . . like Bela did with me.’
‘You were different. This kid has no power. The Council generally don’t concern themselves with duds.’
The word might not have been aimed at me, but it was dismissive and cruel and it still hurt. I expected better of Ziggi, and I was about to tell him so when my coat pocket vibrated. The name flashed across the screen and I started tossing up whether to answer or ignore. All I wanted was get back home and back to David, to feel his arms around me, to smell his scent, to have him make everything seem ordinary. To remind me that I wasn’t a version of Donovan Baker.
Against my better judgment I gave in. ‘Yeah, Bela?’
‘You need to get here. We’ve got a mess.’ He sounded strange, distant, and a tremor shook his voice.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Just get here.’
‘Here being?’
‘Pullenvale.’ He rattled off the address.
‘What kind of mess, Bela?’
‘The golem-related kind.’
Chapter Seventeen
Pullenvale was a patchwork of big rural properties about thirty minutes from the city centre, in good traffic at least. The houses were huge, but so much more refined than those on the Sovereign Islands, the overall style countrified elegance rather than look-at-all-my-money. Pools, discreetly concealed spas and well-used tennis courts were de rigueur, and most places had stables for spoilt little girls to keep their ponies, and garages for equally spoilt little boys to park their quad bikes and other assorted toys.
Perched on a fifteen-acre block surrounded by gums, acacias, banksias, casuarinas and a high stone wall, the Greenill dwelling didn’t particularly stand out. The three-storey building was an architect-designed, eco-friendly delight in jarrah weathered to silver. Solar panels basked on the roof and several of the walls were nothing more than thick green-tinted glass. I counted four decks of varying heights, one to each compass point and all of them with a wonderful view. The structure sat comfortably in its landscape, and far enough from neighbours that anything short of a riot wouldn’t have been heard.
There was no overt sign of a break-in, but the front door was open. We pulled in behind Bela’s black Porsche, which was skewed across the driveway. Ziggi and I exchanged a look. We went inside, not commenting on the stray pieces of garbage marking out our path; a lack of precision from the boss was a cause for concern.
We stepped into an enormous space: a bright and airy interior with exposed beams and polished timber floors. The lounge held comfortable leather couches covered with colourful throws and cushions, and all the usual clutter associated with a large family: discarded dolls and Matchbox cars, charging iPads and a Nintendo DS console. Magazines were scattered around, books left opened and face-down on footstools, ghostly cup circles beside a stack of unused coasters on the glass-topped coffee table.
The dining room had built-in shelving which housed awards; when I wandered closer I could see there were as many for sporting events as Eisteddfods. A long ironbark table with ten matching chairs waited for the family to sit down to a meal that would never be served. Its rose and chrysanthemum centrepiece was wilting.
In a kitchen filled with appliances that were expensive but not new, we found our employer. Bela leaned against the sink, looking even paler than usual. The man I’d never seen remotely dishevelled, even in the midst of passion, had a speck of vomit on his bottom lip and a couple of substantial splashes on his navy shirt. His grip on the edge of the bench top was so tight his knuckles looked set to poke through the skin.
Ziggi and I approached as if he were an animal likely to flee.
‘Adriana?’ asked Ziggi softly.
Bela looked around at us, coming back to himself. He turned on the tap and doused his face with water, then drenched his shirt as well.
‘Oh, Bela – I’m so sorry.’ I found a clean tea towel in one of the drawers and handed it over.
‘All of them,’ he said, his voice hollow as if his heart had been scooped out. ‘All of them. Adriana, Zendan – the children – all.’
Zendan Greenill owned a Mercedes dealership and made enough money to keep his family in very nice style. More importantly, Adriana Greenill was a member of the Council of Five, and one of Bela’s oldest friends. I’d met her a few times socially and she’d always been nice to me, smiling as though she’d meant it, never making snarky remarks about my parentage. She always seemed to be genuinely interested in the world, and unlike many, she didn’t regard the Normal part of it as just a nasty crunchy coating around the core of wonderful Weyrd. She didn’t appear to think human life was something to be merely tolerated.
Now, she and her family were no more than a memory, and a few fragments of stray trash.
‘Are you okay to . . .?’ I started to ask as Bela pushed away from the sink and strode towards an internal staircase leading off the dining room.
Upstairs were seven bedrooms, each with a different coloured feature wall: blue, green, pink, a darker pink, purple, primrose and russet. We worked alone, so that every room was searched three times, each hoping fresh eyes might pick up a clue another had missed. All the beds had been disturbed, the covers thrown back and sheets rumpled. Pieces of golem spoor – a lolly wrapper here, a shred of newspaper there – were the sole evidence of what had happened. In the primrose room, the only one with a queen bed, there was no sign of a struggle, no indication that either husband or wife had awakened and tried to save themselves or their children. They’d been asleep – and then they were gone.
‘How’d it get in?’ Ziggi asked when we reconvened in the hallway.
‘The sliding door leading out to the pool was open. Adriana was always complaining about the kids forgetting—’ Bela started, and then he stopped and pointed to what looked like a cupboard at the end of the corridor. ‘Panic room.’
The door was reinforced steel, with a range of locks and latches to keep out Normal threats, and wards and sigils against the Weyrd ones. It wasn’t locked, though, and none of the enchantments had been activated. No one had had a chance to get in there and find safety.
The windowless space was big enough for a family of eight to wait out a home invasion or a cyclone. Armchairs and sofas, a large bar fridge, some books and board games made it as comfortable as a lockbox could be. From one wall, closed-circuit TV screens stared blankly back at us. Bela sat in the creaky leather chair in front of them and fiddled with the control panel. The monitors flickered to life and Ziggi and I watched intently as he ran through the night’s recordings. Feeds came from the open-plan living area downstairs, the front and back doors, the pool deck, the internal staircas
e, the balconies and all of the bedrooms. It might have looked like overkill, but all the Councillors had similar set-ups. Paranoia kept you safe in the upper echelons of Weyrd power . . . although apparently not always.
The golem’s hunger might be mindless, but the creature was surprisingly smart: it seldom went in full view of the cameras, generally sticking to the walls and the corners, so mostly all we got were brushes and blurs of it shifting through the house. The only time we got a full view was when it went to one of the beds and took a sleeping figure, but I couldn’t watch the kids disappearing, so I watched Bela instead as he stared hard-eyed at the screens.
‘It’s changed prey: Normal to Weyrd,’ I said, pondering the dietary adjustment. Had the city’s homeless, sensing a tremor running through their cold concrete territories, found new places to hide, like rabbits realising a fox had moved into the neighbourhood? With the streets empty and need clawing at its centre, had the golem wandered further afield, seeking something new? Was it all a coincidence or was this something else? Something more targeted and purposeful?
How long would it be before the golem lost its remaining skerrick of humanity?
Bela shut off the images and pressed his palms against his eyes. Ziggi’s fingers hovered at his friend’s shoulder, descended, landed brief as a butterfly, then lifted off. I touched the blacker than black hair and lowered my voice. ‘Do you think this was intentional?’
‘Attacking one of the Council?’ His fists slammed on the console and he shook my hand away.
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Coincidence, then?’
‘I’m too old to believe in coincidence.’
‘Then I think we need to err on the side of caution, treat Adriana as if she was the intended target.’ I didn’t say, And the rest of the family was just collateral damage, though I suspected we were all thinking it. ‘You’ll want to tell the other Councillors that they’ll need to rethink their security measures.’ I paused. ‘And I’m sorry, Bela. I really am.’
Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 Page 16