by Arjay Lewis
As we approached the police car, I turned and gave the police station one final look. My eye was drawn to the odd building next door, its red brick in dark contrast to the yellow pillars of the municipal building.
But my gaze went up to the top, to the large dark windows that faced the city in all directions. My perspective shifted to the tile work on the front bearing the name LEACH.
I froze, unable to suck in breath, the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. Although the weather wasn’t hot, I was suddenly drenched with cold sweat. I now understood the meaning of my vision at Hallman’s office. I had seen a creature resembling a leech to trigger my mind back to the name Leach that I had seen on this building the other day.
I gazed toward downtown. Mountainview is built on a hill, the police station near the top, the train station at the bottom, with Bloomdale Avenue on an incline. From the top floor of the Leach Building, the view of the city must be spectacular. I could now tell that the windows, which reflected the sunlight so brightly, were tinted—as if to protect someone with a sensitivity to light.
I was jolted back to reality by an unpleasant yank from the officer, who unlocked the door to his cruiser.
“Wait,” I said. “There’s something important I have to tell Detective McGee!”
“You’ll get one phone call at the station,” he said as he opened the back door.
In a flash, I knew where Gingold had taken Jenny. He owned this building, like the others. But what could I do? One thing was clear, if I went into the back seat of that police car, I was locked in with no way out until Orange. And then would they let me call McGee and tell him that Gingold was right next door? And could McGee take him down? Would it be too late for Jenny?
All this galloped through my brain at breakneck speed as the officer waited for me to move. “Look, mister, either get in the car, or I’ll put you in. I’d rather not hurt you.”
I met his eyes.
Using all of my mental strength, I let go of any inhibitions or reservations and dove into his mind with every fiber of my being.
He looked at me questioningly for a moment but didn’t look away. I reached farther and deeper as I tried to find the core of his being, much more than I’d done with Janice Hoefler.
All at once, I knew a great deal about this man, Mike Mackenzie. Everyone called him Mack. He was a good man, and he worked hard to be a good cop. He’d been a poor student, and it was more difficult for him to remember all the rules and information. He made up the difference by working twice as hard as other officers. He went with less sleep, reviewed police materials and procedures on a regular basis, and made sure to follow orders exactly as he was told.
I had entered his mind so strongly, I had pulled him into a trance state. This morning, Hallman slipped easily into a similar state without prompting. But either through my fear for Jenny or my desperation at the situation, I’d reached the same deep place in Mackenzie’s mind.
But now, I had no qualms about taking advantage of it.
“You received a call,” I said aloud.
I did? His mind answered, his lips unmoving.
“You were told to let me go,” I said, my eyes totally focused on his.
I was told to let you go, he thought back to me.
Unlock the cuffs, I passed to him without a word.
He moved slowly to take the keys from his belt.
“Keep your eyes on mine,” I said aloud.
I was afraid if we broke eye contact, I might not be able to maintain our connection and bring him to this place again. He lifted the keys, and held them up, selecting the handcuff key, his stare meeting mine.
I don’t remember getting a call, flashed through his mind, a moment of doubt.
Yes, you do. You went to the car and there was a call on your cell phone.
He slipped the key into the lock and made a brief turn, releasing the ratchet and expanding one metal bracelet. He repeated the action on my left hand. The cuffs came off, and I rubbed my wrists, irritated from the tight metal.
“Sorry for the misunderstanding,” he said aloud, his eyes glassy.
“Quite all right, officer,” I said, still in contact, but I was getting weary. This took a lot of energy, and I had to end it quickly. You have to go.
“I have to go,” he said as if it were his original thought.
I nodded, blinked, and broke the eye contact. I quickly crossed Bloomdale Avenue, and only glanced back to see him standing there puzzled for a moment. He then got into the car and drove off.
I exhaled deeply with relief as the car disappeared down Bloomdale Avenue.
I stood and faced the Leach Building. It would’ve helped if I’d actually had a plan. All I wanted to do was get free from the officer, but now—I couldn’t go back into the police station and get McGee. Tice and the lieutenant wouldn’t let me get ten feet before they’d throw me in cuffs and call the Orange police again.
But to barge into the Leach Building alone with no backup—that was also not a smart idea.
The activities of the morning had tired me out. I’d used a lot of mental energy on Hallman and now Mackenzie. Was I strong enough for a face-to-face with Jack Gingold?
I pulled out my cell phone and moved to the text screen. I hate to text, as my fingers are too large for any touch screen, and I end up writing incomprehensible messages, especially when the autocorrect kicks in.
But I went ahead anyway.
Bill-
It’s Len. Gingold is on the top floor of the Leach building, next door to the MPD station. That was what the worm that bites was all about. Get some backup as soon as you get this message and go there. The top floor.
I sent the text.
I looked up at the building and knew I had to go in. Probably a very bad plan. If McGee crashed in there with a thousand SWAT guys, I could end up shot. However, I didn’t know how long it would take for Bill to read the message as he was interrogating Hallman.
Go…
I sensed the buzz. I needed to make my move—now.
I glanced at my watch. Just a little after nine. Hopefully, Gingold was a late sleeper, and I could get the drop on him, as they used to say in old gangster movies.
I decided on a frontal assault, going in the front door. I approached the facade and noted that there were two businesses on the ground floor. One was an insurance company, the other a moving and storage company.
I nodded. This made sense: a storage company.
If any of the buildings Nova owned had anything valuable in them, he could store it here and then claim an additional loss when it burned down. It also gave him a front, a legitimate business that wouldn’t arouse suspicions or have any connection to Nova.
I stepped to the door and entered the moving company’s office. There was a short, heavyset man with an unlit cigar stuck in his mouth like it was a part of his lips. He sat, unshaven, behind a desk with an open newspaper in his hands.
He glanced up at me, but the paper didn’t fall. “You need something moved?”
“No,” I said, and smiled as I tried like hell to make my voice nonchalant. “I have an appointment with Jack.” He didn’t respond, just sat and stared at me. “Uh, John—Gingold?”
He nodded, and I relaxed. Though I couldn’t imagine this man would pull out a large gun and blow me away, I was unsure of how elaborate Gingold’s security might be.
“You got to go to the back of the building,” he said, moving the cigar to the other side of his mouth with his tongue. “You ring the bell, and he buzzes you in, then you take the elevator.”
“Thank you,” I said with a nod and then walked to the door. I peeked back to see if he went for a phone or a hidden button. But he just returned to his paper without a break to his routine.
So far, no alarms.
There was an alley next to the building, and I to
ok it to avoid the police station and the chance I might be seen. The alley wove right and left, maze-like, between the extensions that had been added to the buildings over the years. I walked out to a view of the police parking lot, filled with cruisers and fire department vehicles.
I drew closer to the back of the Leach Building. There were large metal rollup doors and an enormous moving van with the name of the company emblazoned on it. I passed by the locked doors covered with flaking red paint and discovered a doorway. It looked much newer than the rest of the building, like something from a private residence. However, it was heavy metal, with a tiny window reinforced with wire in its center.
There was a door buzzer on the jamb near the knob with a small cardboard insert that read Gingold. A small box with a speaker was next to it.
I stood there for a moment and studied the door. If I buzzed and Jack asked who it was, what would I say?
So much for the element of surprise.
I went back to the metal rollup doors, which were used to load large items in and out of the warehouse, but they were securely fastened.
I returned to the door and examined the lock more carefully. There was a small gap between the lock and the door jamb. It was a wide enough space to slip a credit card in and if I had a small screwdriver, I might be able to force it open. I pulled on the door, and it quivered a bit, so there was some play in it to force something under the catch.
Looking around to make sure there was no one watching, I touched the button on the head of my cane, and with the sound of metal, the sword slid from its wooden sheath.
I held the blade for a moment as it flashed in the sunlight. It was not a wide blade, as it was fitted to the cane, but the end came to a fine point.
Perfect.
I scanned the street again and slipped the sharp tip of the blade into the space between the latch and the door. My experience as a burglar was limited, and though I did spend years doing magic, I never mastered escapes. I struggled as I manipulated the lock and thought how my magician brother Thomas could have done this in seconds instead of minutes.
Sweat began to drip down my face and sting my eyes. The idea occurred to me that scaling the building like a superhero might be an easier solution, but just then, the blade caught the small metal cylinder and slipped it back. The door came open in my hands.
I almost fell backward, but held onto the doorknob, so it didn’t close on me, and I didn’t end up on my butt. Then, picking up the wood of my cane, I returned the blade to its hiding place, quietly stepped inside, and gently shut the door.
I tried to see if there were any cameras trained at the door or hidden in the corners of the room, but I saw nothing.
He knows you’re coming… flashed into my mind. The sweat was gone, but I felt cold.
JACK’S DIARY: FRIDAY
I love it when a plan comes together. Then again, why wouldn’t it? I have always had an enormous amount of luck, and it’s still working.
Drugging the bitch was certainly no trouble—she was oblivious to it—and when I stepped into the bar and helped her out, she was too gone to fight back. The advantages of better living through chemistry. A little Rohypnol goes a long way.
I brought her back here and put her in my bed—in the vault. I didn’t touch her, not that way. I’ve never forced myself on a woman. God know I don’t have to. They find me quite attractive enough.
But she passed out completely, which was a pity. I thought in the privacy of my abode, I could—well—play with her. With my power, I wanted to start with a few little burns and see the look of fear in her eyes. That’s the fun part, the exciting part. Like Mishan, Wendy, and even old Roswell Norris. The look in their eyes when I strike. I think it makes me stronger.
But she lay comatose, so I took off her shoes (I am a gentleman) and placed her on the bed, covering her with the satin sheets. I opened the sofa bed in the other room, and after carefully locking her in the bedroom (didn’t want her wandering around during the night, did I?), I went to bed myself.
This morning, I woke earlier than my usual time. I forgot to cover the windows, and the light was pouring in through the tinted glass. Even that was too much, so I put on my glasses. I walked to the large vault door and opened it with the combination, but dear Miz Insurance Bitch was still out.
I watched her for a few minutes. She is an attractive enough woman, though nothing extraordinary. But I imagined how she’d look with her face twisted in agony as she begged and pleaded for mercy, tears streaming down her cheeks. Now that would be an entirely new level of attractiveness. Perhaps tying her to the bed would be an idea?
I started my morning coffee and sat to write this. It’s a bore that she’s still sleeping, but not unexpected. It’s one of the side effects of Rohypnol, makes the user sleep for up to ten hours. That will be fine, I’ll give her a chance to wake up. The day is young, and I have nowhere to go and no one to see, so she can have all my attention. Yes, all my attention.
Will the cripple come? Is he good enough to find me? Ah, such questions, but I have a sense he’s on his way. I’ll feel him when he gets close.
In the meantime, I wonder if they know that dear Denise is missing? I doubt that they will find her.
Ever.
twenty
The elevator lay straight ahead of me as I crept into the building. It appeared quite large, as if used for moving furniture. It was fronted with two silver sliding doors polished to the point of being mirrored.
“If there’s an elevator, there have to be stairs,” I whispered to myself as I approached the end of the hall. He might know I was on my way, but I didn’t want to just ride up and be trapped inside the large metal coffin, with nowhere to run—not that I was much of a runner.
I noticed a large door to my right, reinforced with metal straps like in a warehouse. I quietly turned the handle and pulled it open. A dark hallway stood beyond, windowless in the center of the building. The floors were of thick pine with warps that appeared in several boards, creating gaps. There was another door across from me that probably led to the storage area.
A set of rusted metal steps waited to my left. The banisters and rails, also metal, were painted a sickly green, a shade I would call crypt green. I started to climb the steps as quietly as I could, pulling my right leg up behind me. The tapping of my cane, though faint, seemed to reverberate around the open space up to the top floor. This structure had the odd angles of a bell tower, and I fought vertigo as I ascended.
I could detect him above me, his energy glimmering like a golden nugget at the bottom of a cloudy stream, so I kept going.
White, white, nothing but white, I thought. A white wall and white carpet in a white room with no doors and no windows, just pure, plain whiteness.
I didn’t want him to sense me, or if he did, I wanted to keep my true thoughts away from him. I didn’t know his limits, and I certainly wasn’t sure of my ability to face him. But I didn’t want him to know that.
What would I do once I arrived at the top floor, which loomed above me ever further? What if the door up there was locked? Even worse, what if it wasn’t?
All at once, I got an image of Gingold like a James Bond villain, holding a martini and explaining his plan to destroy the world. I shook my head and ignored it. What did I expect, to see him standing there with a white cat?
I wanted a drink, the first time since the night of Wendy’s death. That night, my drinking had made me next to useless. Now I wanted it to calm my nerves.
But that’s the problem with being an alcoholic: there’s always a reason to drink. If I feel good, it’s to celebrate; bad, it’s to cheer me up; scared, it’s to give me courage; excited, it’s to calm me. It doesn’t matter, there is always a reason when it’s what you want.
I felt cold as the sweat dried on my skin, but that was good. Cold, like the cold at Scudder House. I could still r
ecall walking in there and feeling the air change, becoming frigid. It was almost like it welcomed me, as if I was expected.
. . .
Scudder House was a fantastic creation in its day, built for Elias J. Scudder, the last of the great railroad tycoons. It sat on a many-acred estate that overlooked San Francisco Bay casting a huge, dark shadow with its turreted towers and magnificent Victorian woodwork.
The day the family moved in, they threw a party for the entire railroad company and guests, everyone from conductors and motormen to the vice president of the United States. It was a summer’s day in 1894, with a spectacular buffet set outside on ice in the heat. Guests dressed to the nines drank the finest champagne and ate caviar.
There were tours of the house in its magnificence, showing off the crystal chandeliers and gold plated bathroom fixtures. It possessed all of the most modern fixtures, indoor plumbing, gas jets for lamps, huge fireplaces for warmth and show, and a coal burning furnace.
But even that first night, it became evident there was something inexplicably wrong about that house.
Fireworks were set off from a ship in the bay, and all the guests were watching, oohing and aahing over the sparks as they flared in the sky. Elias’s youngest daughter, only five, merrily watched the display. She wore a frilly dress, and she’d played with the ribbons hanging from it all day. As she watched, she backed up and proceeded to step into a sinkhole that the land surveyor said could not have existed on that property.
Her cries were muffled by the dirt and sounds of the explosions. And as she lay there, the dirt closed up again and quickly suffocated her.
The discovery of the body was a horrible shock and made news from coast to coast. Elias Scudder took his wife and five remaining children, closed up Scudder House, and moved back east.
Years later as the Roaring 20’s came to an end, an older and much poorer, though not broke by any means, Elias Scudder returned to the abode that bore his name. But he and his wife lived as recluses and seldom ventured out. The few servants they hired insisted on staying away from the house at night, only coming in during the day to do what needed to be done.