The Madness Below: An Alastair Stone Urban Fantasy Novel (Alastair Stone Chronicles Book 20)

by R. L. King

  The other possibility was both more likely and more dangerous: that another uncharted dimensional rift had opened in the middle of the Massachusetts woods, and the Treadley students had somehow encountered it. If that ended up being the case, the best choice would be to find the rift and close it—but he couldn’t do that. That meant he’d be forced to take the second-best option: put some magical protection around it and hope nobody else blundered into its presence.

  Even that idea troubled Stone, though, because it didn’t fit the rifts’ previous behavior patterns. As far as he knew, the energy they emitted affected only the magically talented, both those who already had magical ability and latent talents. In the latter case, it could bring out that talent and sometimes even enhance it. It wasn’t an exact science by any means, at least not based on Stone’s limited data, but the idea that seven random teenagers would all possess enough undiscovered magical punch to catch the attention of a new rift didn’t make sense. If that were the cause, it would have been more likely that one or two of them were affected, and perhaps killed the others.

  And then there was the matter of the strange chanting, which didn’t fit either the Evil or the rifts.

  Stone sighed, looking around as he drove down Treadley’s short, picturesque main street. Regardless of the cause, his best course of action would probably be to find a place to stay and then call Desiree Griffith. With any luck, she could provide him with more details, and perhaps even get him a copy of the video so he could hear the chant himself instead of trusting some mundane’s transcription.

  It wasn’t long, however, before he discovered that finding a place to stay might not be as easy as he thought. Treadley had only a pair of small inns, and by the time Stone reached the other end of Main Street, he’d passed both of them and noted the hand-painted SORRY, NO VACANCY signs out front. That wasn’t good, since Treadley’s closest neighboring town was several miles away along a winding, narrow road. Not an insurmountable problem, but it would be more difficult for him to get the information he needed if he had to keep driving back and forth. At least it wasn’t snowing yet—the weather was chilly, but clear.

  He turned his rental Ford around and pulled into a diner set back from the street. If nothing else, it would give him a place to get out of the car, grab a cup of coffee and a burger or something, and figure out what he wanted to do next.

  The tiny parking lot was nearly full. When he entered the diner, he noted that its counter and almost all of its booths were already occupied. That was odd at four p.m. Did everyone do things earlier around here?

  The harried-looking, middle-aged waitress led him to one of the two empty booths near the back, got him a glass of water, and dropped a menu in front of him.

  “Is it always this busy here?” he asked.

  She shot him a look like she wasn’t sure he was serious. “You’re not from around here.”

  “What was your first clue?” he asked with a chuckle. After ten years in America, he was well used to his accent marking him as a stranger wherever he went over here.

  Her gaze sharpened. “You a reporter, or a lookie-loo?”

  “Pardon?”

  She sighed. “Either way, I don’t know what you’re doing here anymore. There’s nothing going on. Those kids are locked away, there’s no chance you’ll get within a mile of them, and everybody else is sick of talking about the whole business with a bunch of strangers. I wish you people would just stop bothering us.”

  Ah. Of course. Especially these days, when every interesting local news story could receive national prominence via the internet, it wasn’t surprising that not only reporters—shady and otherwise—but voyeuristic tourists would be hanging around, hoping for some tidbit that hadn’t been documented in the mainstream news. From both the waitress’s words and her tone, it seemed like the townspeople were getting fed up with the attention. One could hardly blame them. “Er—no. I’m not either one, actually.”

  It couldn’t have been any more obvious that she wanted to roll her eyes at him, but then she remembered he was her customer. She looked him up and down. “You’re not fooling anybody, you know. From the look of you, I’d say you’re one of those tabloid guys. We’ve had quite a few of them slinking around even after the mainstream crews left. And before you ask, I don’t care if you don’t leave me a tip. I’ve had it with the whole thing. We all have. You ghouls should clear out and let us mourn our dead in peace.”

  Stone shook his head. “I’m terribly sorry. I don’t want to add to your discomfort, and I assure you, I’m not any sort of reporter.”

  “Whatever. Look—just tell me what you want to eat and let me get back to work. But I warn you—please don’t bother asking me anything about the murders, because I won’t answer.”

  “Er—” He glanced at the menu. “Just bring me a burger and a cup of coffee, please. I won’t ask you about anything, I promise.”

  She grumbled something and headed off toward the kitchen.

  Stone leaned back in his seat and looked around at his fellow customers. It wasn’t hard to tell that most of them didn’t belong here; he couldn’t put his finger on why, exactly, but he knew. And he supposed with his black T-shirt, jeans, and long, black wool overcoat, he didn’t fit in either. The waitress had mentioned tabloid reporters and “lookie-loos,” which probably meant most of the mainstream reporters had already left, moving on to follow the voracious and never-ending news cycle. To them, the murders in Treadley were already last week’s history, but Stone had dealt with enough tabloid newshounds to know their kind didn’t give up so easily. It was one of the side effects of not having to adhere to strict journalistic integrity: why report the facts when you could make things up and pull in the lucrative gullible-reader base? Sadly, they weren’t a small subset by any means.

  While he waited for his food, Stone took a moment to shift to magical sight and study the auras of the people around him. The two waitresses looked frazzled, with angry red patches dancing around their normal blue and green. Most of the customers showed a combination of anticipation and boredom, as if they were hoping something would happen but so far nothing had. A few of them, probably townspeople, looked tired. Stone sympathized with them, since the reporters and tourists probably hadn’t shown much tact in trying to get dirt from anyone who’d talk to them. A couple people had glanced his way, but so far nobody had approached him.

  He’d been planning to call Desiree Griffith from the table, but changed his mind. This place had too many ears, and the last thing he wanted was for his identity and his reason for being here to get out among this nosy lot. Instead, he picked up a folded newspaper from a recently vacated table nearby and spread it out in front of him.

  It was the local paper, the Treadley Times, which, according to its masthead, was published twice a week on Wednesday and Saturday, with an additional online update on Monday. It had only a few pages, and naturally the murders dominated the front one. Stone skimmed the articles while devouring the surprisingly tasty burger the waitress dropped off without a word.

  Apparently, the seven teenage suspects were being held at a secure mental-health facility in a larger town about twenty miles away, where they were undergoing various tests to determine if they were competent to stand trial for the murders. Despite the students’ failure to admit to committing the crimes, the authorities seemed to have no doubt that they had, in fact, been responsible. They weren’t looking for any other suspects at the time, though they were in the process of questioning everyone in the local area who might have a connection to the students. The article urged that if anyone had any information to share about the students’ possible motives, they should get in touch with the Treadley police department.

  The other front-page articles discussed counseling opportunities available for local residents, churches’ outreach to anyone who might want spiritual guidance, and an upcoming benefit crab feed to help pay for the victims’ final expenses.

  Stone tossed the paper aside, s
haking his head in sympathy. He couldn’t imagine the level of disruption this many murders could have on such a small town. He thought about how the people in the village near his home back in England might react to something similar. He finished his burger quickly and, contrary to the waitress’s prediction, left her a substantial tip. He caught her attention as she came by to pick up his check and widened her eyes at the amount he’d left. “May I ask you something before I go? I promise, it’s not about anything sensitive.”

  “What is it?” Her tone was a little less guarded now, but not much.

  “I noticed two small inns as I drove through town, and they both seem to be full up. Can you recommend anywhere else I might stay? A local bed-and-breakfast, perhaps?”

  She snorted. “Good luck. The ghouls have taken over the inns and B-and-Bs not just here, but everywhere within ten miles.” With a sigh, she added, “The reporters are bad enough, but a lot of people come around just so they can get a look at the place, taking pictures and stomping through the area like it’s some kind of damned tourist attraction. If that’s why you’re here, you should just move on.”

  Hmm. This wasn’t good. “And there aren’t any locals I could rent a room from? I’ll pay well.”

  “No chance. Nobody’s gonna open their house to outsiders right now. Give it up, is my advice. Thanks for the tip, and I’ll give you one in return: come back next year. The leaves are beautiful in September, and this whole thing should have blown over by then. Just go away, and let us have our grief.”

  4

  As Stone was heading back to his car after leaving the diner, his phone beeped to indicate an incoming message. He pulled it out and smiled when he saw Verity’s name.

  Hi Doc, it read. Having fun in England? K and I are at Disneyland. Can you believe she’s never been here?

  It beeped again, and up popped a photo of Kyla, wearing her leather jacket and black mouse ears, standing next to Donald Duck. She was obviously trying to look grumpy, but failing—her eyes gave away her amusement.

  Glad you’re having a good time, he texted back.

  We should go sometime. Have you ever been?

  No. But you’re not getting me to dress like a rodent.

  She sent back a grinning smiley-face emoji, followed by We’ll see. How’s Aubrey?

  Stone hesitated, trying to decide if he wanted to tell her and risk her wanting to come back here and help him deal with the Treadley situation. Much as he’d like to have her along, she and Kyla had finally begun to shake off the last of their disagreement over what had happened with Ben Halstrom last month, and he didn’t want to interfere with their first real trip together since then.

  Still, though, he couldn’t lie to her.

  I didn’t go yet, he sent back. I’m in Massachusetts dealing with something that came up.

  Came up when? Thought you were leaving today. Want to talk?

  People were starting to pay attention to him, standing there in the parking lot. He got into the Ford and closed the door. Not now. You and Kyla have a good time. I need to meet with someone here. I’ll get this sorted.

  He half-expected, because Verity was sharp and paid more attention to the news than he did, for her to make the connection between his presence here and the Treadley case. He stared at the screen as the little dots cycled back and forth, trying to decide how he’d respond if she did.

  But he needn’t have worried, at least not yet. Okay, she sent. But let me know if you need anything. I’ll be back up north in a couple days. I’ll check on Raider.

  Thanks. Talk later.

  He looked around to make sure nobody was watching him any longer, then switched over to the phone. He pulled Desiree Griffith’s number from his wallet and punched it in.

  It rang twice, then a gruff female voice said, “Griffith.”

  “Desiree Griffith? My name is Alastair Stone. I don’t know if your mother or her friend Reverend Blodgett had a chance to ring you yet, but—”

  “Oh. Right. Yeah,” she cut him off. “Hi.”

  “Er—hello. I’m wondering if you might have time for a brief chat today.” Stone was surprised at how abrupt she sounded, almost as if she were trying to get rid of him.

  “Yeah. We can definitely do that. I’m on duty right now—can we meet at six? Where are you staying?”

  “Well…er…I’m currently not staying anywhere. Apparently all the inns and whatnot within a ten-mile radius are already occupied.”

  “Oh, yeah. Damn tourists have taken over the town. Okay—uh—well, can you find something to do until six, and we can meet at the Busy Bee out on the edge of town? Most of them don’t go out there.”

  Stone didn’t have to ask who “they” were. “That’s fine. I’ll find it and meet you there at six. Thank you.”

  There weren’t a lot of ways to find something to do in Treadley. It was already getting dark, which made it more difficult to cruise around the unfamiliar area, so Stone confined his search to Main Street and the streets directly bordering it. He drove by a few restaurants and fast-food joints, some bars, a series of shops catering to the New England tourist trade, a tiny single-screen movie theater showing an action flick, several churches, and various other businesses of the type needed to keep a town running smoothly. Finally, along one of the side streets perpendicular to Main, he discovered a small, rustic-looking library and ducked inside there to kill the hour and a half before he met with Officer Griffith.

  The librarian, a plump woman in a plaid shirt and cat-eye glasses, gave him the side-eye as he entered, and he wondered how many of the tabloid vultures and tourist ghouls had stopped by there over the past few days looking for information. She didn’t say anything, though, and he decided not to either.

  By the time he left an hour later, he had a better idea of a few things, including the layout of the town (he’d found a map), both the local and a larger nearby town’s papers’ accounts of the murders and their aftermath, and some information about Ralph Waldo Emerson High School, attended by all seven of the teenage murderers. He made a point to carefully re-shelve his reference material before leaving, earning him a grudging nod from the librarian.

  The Busy Bee turned out to be a combination bar and poolroom along the west road leading out of Treadley. When Stone arrived, he found a black-and-white police car parked around the side. He pulled his Ford in next to it and headed inside.

  He identified Desiree Griffith right away, by virtue of the fact that she was both the only woman and the only police officer inside. He crossed the bar, which was decorated with the stuffed and mounted heads of local wildlife, old license plates, and street signs, and stopped in front of the wooden booth where she sat sipping a soda. “Officer Griffith, I presume?”

  She was in her middle thirties, with short blond hair, brown eyes, and the kind of build that might be called “sturdy”—athletic but not thin. She still wore her blue uniform, and her wide-brimmed hat sat on the table next to her. “That’s me,” she said. “And you’ve got to be Alastair Stone. We don’t get that many folks with British accents around here.” She indicated the spot across from her. “Have a seat.”

  Stone offered her his business card by way of introduction. His initial impression of Griffith was that he liked her: she had the kind of no-nonsense, zero-bullshit demeanor that he found refreshing. He switched to magical sight to take a look at her aura, which was pale blue with faint flashes of red. He wouldn’t have expected otherwise, given what had been going on around here. He reminded himself that she was the one who’d found the bloody students and their chanting circle.

  “Right, then,” he said. “First of all, thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”

  She studied his card before sliding it into her shirt pocket. “I have to talk to somebody. When my mom called from Lowell and said she’d been talking to Reverend Blodgett, I thought he might come himself. I had no idea he’d contact somebody else.” She looked him up and down, glanced around to make sure none of the few other p
eople in the bar were listening, and then leaned across the table. “I’ve been convinced something—well—out there—is connected with these murders ever since my partner and I discovered those kids standing around chanting at the school a few nights ago. But of course, I can’t say that to anybody around here. Best case, I’d get administrative leave while I recover from my ‘trauma’.” She put finger-quotes around the word. “Worst case, I’d get tossed in the same facility where those kids are now—though hopefully not under twenty-four-hour guard.”

  Stone nodded. He knew all too well how most of the world treated anyone who claimed to see supernatural activity. “Is it safe to speak clearly here?”

  “If we keep it down. Nowhere public is completely safe around Treadley—not with all the out-of-towners hanging around looking for tidbits. I wish I could run ’em all out, but as long as they obey the law they’ve got as much right to be here as anybody does.”

  “Nonetheless—do you mind if I employ a small spell? It will make our conversation unintelligible to anyone not sitting at this table.”

  She chuckled. “Oh, like a cone of silence? Sure, go ahead.”

  “You’re familiar with the spell?”

  “Nah, but my younger son loves Get Smart on Nickelodeon.”

  Stone made a quick gesture, settling the field around them. “There. Now we can talk in normal voices without concern. If anyone hears us, they’ll hear gibberish and think we’re either speaking a foreign language or they’ve had too much to drink.”