by R. L. King
“And what is that?”
Stone picked up his briefcase from next to his chair and pulled out the file folder containing one set of the photos from the San Francisco case. “I’m consulting with the police about a crime up in San Francisco, and there are some magical items involved—old ones. Very old, unless I’m slipping. I’d like to know if you know anything about them, or if you can turn anything up.”
Kolinsky took the folder. For several moments, he said nothing as he slowly and methodically paged through them. “What can you tell me about what I am looking at?”
Stone gave him a quick overview of the crimes, beginning with the chest and circle in the storage locker and ending with the discovery of Ralph’s suicide in the motel room. “I’m sure those two figurines are connected to it,” he said. “The locker belonged to a man named Henry Everett. Seemed a fairly innocuous old man. No red flags that I could find—other than what happened, obviously. He left the locker to his slacker son, who never even bothered to pay the bill. The police said they spoke with him and he knows nothing.”
“I see.” Kolinsky sipped his wine and paged through the photos again, concealing them as the waiter brought their entrées. “These look…familiar. I could swear that I have seen something similar, but it was quite some time ago. I will look into it, and this Henry Everett, for you. And in return—?”
“Well—I’ve already promised you at least one book from Desmond’s collection. How about if we make it two? Three if you can come up with anything definitively useful about these figurines.”
“Done,” Kolinsky said. “Come to the shop on Monday, and I will let you know what I have found.”
“Thank you, Stefan. I appreciate it. And—all of your advice.” Stone found it perversely amusing how much he was relying on Kolinsky lately—definitely more so than he had before he’d gone black. “This whole thing has been…a bit overwhelming.” And you don’t even know the half of it. He wondered what his friend would do with the rest of the knowledge he wasn’t sharing—nor ever intended to.
He trusted Kolinsky, but perhaps not that far.
“Hey, Stone—wait up!”
Stone paused on his way back to his office following his lunch with Kolinsky to see Gerry Hook, one of the regulars from the Friday pub-crawling group he attended when he had the time, hurrying to catch up with him. With all of their wildly different schedules, he rarely saw any of them outside of the pub. “Hello, Gerry. How are you?”
“Good.” Hook, from the Journalism department, fell into step with Stone, puffing a little from the exertion of his short jog. “Hey—are you coming tonight? I want to talk to you about something, but I’ve gotta run now. Class in five minutes.”
“Talk to me about something?”
Hook waved it off. “It’s not a big deal. Not like the endowment thing. Hey, congrats on that, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“But anyway, I hope you can show up. The guys have missed you lately. Everything okay?”
“Just…a bit hectic.” He was getting to be a master at understatement, that was certain. But still—maybe a couple hours of drinking and bullshitting with a bunch of guys who knew nothing about magic or his recent difficulties might be just what he needed. “I’ll do my best,” he promised.
“Hope to see you there, man.” He clapped Stone on the shoulder and jogged off.
Stone almost didn’t go—he had far too many other things he could be doing with the evening, not the least of which was catch up on some sleep. But Verity was out clubbing tonight with some friends, Blum hadn’t called him back with any new developments on the case, and since he planned to pop over to Caventhorne tomorrow to do some final work on the wards and drop off the crime-scene photos with Eddie, he didn’t particularly want to head over there early.
Stop moping around, he told himself. He was far too young to be acting like such a grumpy old man—he hadn’t been to a club to check out new bands in months, and even considering the possibility of spending a perfectly good Friday night sleeping instead of doing something enjoyable embarrassed him a little. He’d wanted to get his life back to normal—this was a good time to start doing it.
The group changed their meeting location each time, rotating through a series of about eight local watering holes. Tonight’s was an actual pub—or as close as they got over here, anyway—called the White Hart. By the time Stone got there several of the others, including Gerry Hook, had already arrived and staked out a long table in the back room.
“Hey, Stone! You made it!” Hook called, and several others joined in enthusiastic greeting, raising their beer glasses.
“Long time no see,” Ted Marzano, a stout professor of physics, added. “Thought you didn’t love us anymore!” He’d clearly been here a while, and had already started his night’s drinking in earnest.
“How could I not love you lot?” Stone asked. “Now budge that giant arse over and make room.”
Marzano obligingly scooted over and Stone dragged another chair in. “How’ve you been?” he asked, catching the waitress’s attention and pointing at Stone.
“Busy.” When the waitress arrived, he ordered a pint of Guinness. “Just got a lot going on right now.”
“Like moving up in the world, I hear!” Ev Nealy said from across the table. “Heard about your little honor this week. Congratulations!”
“Yeah, for sure,” Marzano added with a snicker. “So old Stone’s endowed now.”
“You mean he wasn’t before?” Hook patted Stone on the back.
“Hey, isn’t any of my business,” Nealy said. He raised his glass and smirked. “But I heard it’s a nice big one.”
“How about it, Stone?” Marzano said. “You want to weigh in on this subject?”
“Not really. I can’t help it if you lot are jealous.” Stone had already endured similar comments from several other campus wits this week—he’d heard them all by now. “So, if you’re all quite finished, suppose you tell me what I’ve been missing.”
For the next hour or so, the gathering got louder and more jovial as the group took turns telling bad jokes, sharing amusing anecdotes about their students, and tossing back more pints. It took Stone a while before he could relax, but eventually the sheer normality of drinking with friends, after all the stressful and horrific things that had happened to him lately, began loosening him up. He even shared a couple stories of his own, including a humorous but sentimental account of some of the goings-on up at Brunderville. It surprised him even more than most of the others, that he was doing it—he didn’t think he’d reached a stage in his grief about Mortenson yet that he could talk about her so casually—but he thought she would approve. She’d always held the regard of her students and fellow faculty as an important part of her life, so not allowing her to be forgotten would be a proper tribute.
As was the custom at these things, people trickled in and out throughout the evening, either leaving early to head home or showing up late after discharging Friday-night family responsibilities. After a couple more of the group said their goodbyes and left, Gerry Hook drifted back over to where Stone sat. “Have you got a minute? I need to get home soon—the wife wants me sober for tomorrow—but I did want to talk to you.”
Stone waved his glass. He was feeling comfortably tipsy, enough that he was glad he’d taken a cab over, but not enough to move him into truly intoxicated. “Sure. What can I do for you?”
Hook finished his pint, looked as if he was briefly considering ordering another, then pushed the glass away. “Well, you know I’m part of this band, right? The Cardinal Sin?”
“Sure.” The Cardinal Sin was the longtime hobby project of four Stanford professors, including Hook, who played drums. Mostly they just jammed together when they could find the time, but occasionally they performed at faculty parties, or at small local venues for beers. Stone had heard them play a few times—they did mostly covers of old rock songs, and they weren’t half bad, especially after a couple of
drinks. “What about them?”
“Well…Kurt Hedding’s gonna have to drop out. He and his wife are having a baby in a couple months, and he doesn’t have time for it anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Have you got anyone in mind to take his place?”
Hook looked at him and didn’t answer.
Stone gaped as he caught on. “Me? You can’t be serious.” Hedding was the band’s lead guitarist.
“Why not? I know you play.”
“Not well enough to be in a band.” Stone waved him off, shaking his head more vehemently. “Come on, Gerry. I’m flattered, but—”
“Hey, none of us are exactly virtuosos,” Hook protested. “And besides, I know you’re better than you let on.”
It was true. His little stint playing with the Forgotten back in West Virginia a few years back had rekindled the bug he thought he’d lost after University, and he’d picked up an old Stratocaster soon after he got back home. Mostly he plinked at it for stress relief, but after three years of intermittent practice he was back to the level he’d been in the old days. But even so… “Surely you must have someone else you can—”
“Could be. But I really think you’d be a good fit. Besides, you have presence. We could use some of that, frankly. Kurt was good on the guitar, but—well, between you and me, he has the stage presence of a middle-aged accountant.”
“He is a middle-aged accountant.”
Hook gripped Stone’s arm. “Come on, man. At least come by our practice Sunday and give it a try. You might like it.”
Stone stared into his glass and pondered. He had to admit a part of him found the idea appealing, which seemed more than a little absurd. He’d wanted to play in a band when he was eighteen—and here he was at more than twice that now, when most men had well and truly settled down with wives and families. “All right,” he said before he could change his mind. “I’ll do it. I’ll try it, anyway. But I don’t sing,” he added.
Gerry grinned. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to. Thanks, Stone. Practice is in the big room on the second floor of the Music building. One o’clock Sunday. And now I’d better get the hell out of here before I end up sleeping on the couch tonight.” He dropped the folded newspaper he’d been scanning earlier on the table, waved to the remaining group, and hurried out.
Stone watched him go. What had he just agreed to? The whole thing was daft. He had too much to do—he didn’t have time to take on a new project, even one that wouldn’t claim much of his spare time. He’d show up on Sunday with the Strat, play a few songs, and then tell them he was sorry, but he’d have to bow out. They could get somebody better anyway, he was sure of it.
But on the other hand…
He dragged over the paper Hook had left and glanced at the headlines. It was the local section of the San Francisco Chronicle, and Stone flicked his gaze over it without interest. He was about to toss it aside again when a headline at the bottom of the page caught his attention:
Suspect in Bizarre Local Thefts Claims No Knowledge of Why He Did It
Stone pulled the paper back over, brow furrowing as he read. According to the article, a local man named Bob Pisani, 37, was in custody following a bizarre crime spree over the last few days. During that time, he’d stolen small electronics, jewelry, and high-end shoes from the department store where he worked. All of the items were found hidden in the attic of his San Francisco home a few miles away, after police apprehended him during an attempt to steal several valuable bottles of liquor from a nearby shop. When questioned, Pisani had claimed to have no idea why he did what he did, simply saying that he’d felt he “had to do it.” The man, married for ten years with two young children, had no prior criminal record.
Briefly, Stone got flashbacks to the Evil, whose common modus operandi was to possess people and compel them to perform actions that produced the negative emotions—anger, despair, jealousy, and others—that they fed on. But this didn’t look like the Evil—for one thing, now that their portals were closed, all the remaining Evil were stuck in the bodies they’d originally inhabited. It wasn’t like them to lie low for years without showing their true colors. For another, one guy committing odd thefts hardly seemed an optimum way to generate negative emotions.
A little chill ran through Stone when he remembered Ralph Gallegos—another happily married man—who’d sliced up three members of his family with a knife before cutting his own throat. It couldn’t be the same thing…could it?
He quickly read through the rest of the article, but nothing else jumped out at him. It was probably nothing, he decided. The thefts’ locations had been on the other side of San Francisco, nowhere near Henry Everett’s storage locker or Ralph Gallegos’s motel room.
But still…it couldn’t hurt to be prudent.
Most of the others had left by now, so the back room had grown a lot more quiet. He pulled out his mobile phone and called Leo Blum.
“Yeah, Blum here.” The background sounded like another bar.
Stone remembered that Blum had given him his private number. “Alastair Stone, Mr. Blum. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Nah, nah, it’s fine. Lemme get someplace quieter. Hold on.” Muffled noises followed, and then the detective came back on the line. “What can I do for ya?”
“It’s probably nothing, but I was out with some friends tonight and happened to notice something in the Chronicle. Have you heard of a strange theft case over at Sunset? A man who claims not to know why he stole several eclectic items from his department store?”
“Yeah, I guess. Kinda sounds familiar. Why?”
“As I said, probably nothing—but call it a hunch. Can you find out if the investigators found another one of those odd figurines anywhere near the man?”
“Another one? There aren’t any more, are there?”
“I’ve no idea. Probably not. But humor me, if you don’t mind. If you don’t find anything, then we’ve lost nothing except a few minutes of time, right?”
“That’s true,” Blum admitted. “I’ll check tomorrow, okay?”
“Thank you, Detective. I assume there haven’t been any new developments.”
“Not a thing. Timmons is spooked, but that doesn’t change anything—we both know he ain’t gonna get fuck-all with mundane investigation.”
“Right. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
“Hate to say it, but don’t hold your breath, Doc.”
Stone called a cab before leaving the pub. As he waited outside, the chilly spring air combining with his new speculation about the case, most of his pleasant buzz had already burned off.
15
Stone was at Caventhorne on Saturday evening, preparing to head back home, when his phone buzzed. He excused himself from Eddie and Ward, who were sorting through a pile of old tomes, and took the call.
“How’d you know, Doc?” Leo Blum demanded without a greeting.
Stone tensed. “They found another one?”
“Yeah. It was in his car. They’d missed it before, since they were lookin’ for booze. Same deal—little black figure, same material, gem eyes, with a crack down the middle.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Yeah, I went over there a couple hours ago to get a look. It’s a different design from the others—this one looks kinda like a fox or somethin’—but it’s obviously from the same set. And Doc, I think things are about to get a lot more interesting.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I got ’em to give me the guy’s contact info—he’s out on bail—and I gave him a call. Asked him where he got that thing. He seemed surprised that I’d ask about it.”
“And?”
“He said he bought it from a guy down at the Wharf. He and his family went down to Pier 39 on Wednesday. Said there was a guy there sellin’ ’em out of a little box.”
A chill settled across the back of Stone’s neck. “Selling ‘them’? So there were more?”
“Yeah, he said he doesn’t remember
how many—not too many, though. He thought there might be three or four more still in the box. But here’s the weirdest part: he claimed that one—the one he ended up buying—called to him.”
“Called to him?” He glanced over at Eddie and Ward. “Literally?”
“No, not like it talked or anything. But he said as soon as they passed the guy, he felt drawn to go look at what he was sellin’. He said normally he doesn’t even look at that stuff, but that little thing really appealed to him. That specific one. He said his wife thought they were all ugly, but it was cheap so he bought it anyway.”
Stone rubbed his chin and considered. “Did you get a description of the man he bought them from?”
“He didn’t really remember. He said he was just down from Pier 39—you know how people hawk all kinds of tourist crap around there? All he remembers was that it was a skinny white guy in one o’ those rasta hats.”
“Did you check that out? Try to find him?”
“Nah, not yet. I can’t do it today, unfortunately—I got some other things I need to get done. Can’t get over there till Monday.”
“I’ve got some time today, and I’m not sure it’s wise to let it go that long. Do you mind if I see what I can find?”
There was a pause. “Officially, I gotta say I can’t authorize a civilian gettin’ involved in a police investigation. Off the record—you might have an easier time findin’ him than I would. Just stay out of trouble and don’t get yourself hurt, okay? I don’t wanna have to explain that to the higher-ups.”
“I’ll be careful. Thank you, Detective.”
“Thank you. Maybe we’ll get somewhere on this after all. Where are you, by the way? This connection’s crap.”
Stone glanced at Eddie and Ward again. “England.”
Blum snorted. “C’mon, Doc, don’t—oh.” His tone changed. “Forgot who I was talkin’ to.”