by Joey Ruff
I barely got the magazine opened when a booming thunder of a voice called, “Mr. Swyftt?”
I looked up, saw a man that was comfortably well-fed and under-exercised. With the buzz cut, my first thought was ex-military. He was younger than me – late 30s, sandy colored hair, grey-striped shirt and blue slacks, no tie. He smiled and said, “I’m Detective Anderson. How can I help you?”
He offered me his hand. I took it. “Is it cold outside?” he asked.
I’d put on leather gloves, as I was tired and a bit dizzy still from the strong flash from the teddy. My ability needed skin-contact to work. “Poison ivy,” I said. “Dropped my keys into some while I was taking a piss in the woods.”
He arched an eyebrow at me curiously. “Pee in the woods often then?”
I nodded, smiled back. “Me and the bears.”
He chuckled a little. “I’ll be. Well, what can I do ya for?”
“I was hoping to ask a few questions, if that’s alright,” I told him. “The Gables’ boy is paying me to find his brother. I was told you could catch me up to speed.”
He nodded, and his expression calmed a little. “Why don’t you come on back to my office, Mr. Swyftt.”
He led the way through a sea of desks and cubicles, copy machines and water coolers. “We can get you a subscription, if you’d like. They’ve got a fantastic column on celebrity fashion, though I don’t suppose that’s what you read it for.”
Confused, I looked down, discovered I was still holding the magazine. I was dressed in black: jeans, leather jacket, and a t-shirt with a white ring-collar. I thought I looked good. “I didn’t realize you were also with the fashion police, Detective.”
He chuckled again.
“I met her once, you know,” I said, motioning to the cover. I set the magazine down on a random desk as we passed.
“You met Julia Roberts?” he asked.
“Sure. Hired me a few years back, after making those Vegas movies.”
“You don’t say.”
“Clooney or one of those other fuck-holes put green dye in her shampoo, and she was looking for payback. Wanted me to hex a parakeet or some bollocks.”
“You can do that?”
“No,” I said.
He chuckled a bit. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Swyftt. You’ve got a good reputation with some of my colleagues. Lieutenant Gibbs, for one.”
When I met Gibbs, he was working a hit-and-run case in the Industrial district. Would have been the next casualty but for me. Some wayward spirit had possessed one of the retired trolley cars – very Stephen King.
“Gibbs. That soddin’ prick. Tell him he still owes me a hundred bucks.”
“I’ll do that,” the detective answered. “Pardon my asking, but I can’t help notice your accent. Australian?”
“English. Grew up in Portsmouth.”
He studied me a moment. “You sure it’s not Australian?”
“I think I’d remember something like that: kangaroos in my backyard. The accent’s Americanized. Been on this side of the pond almost as long as I was over there.”
“I’m a Texan, myself. Born and raised. Moved up here for college and liked it so much I stuck around.”
His office was a big glass box filled with filing cabinets, a large wooden desk, and enough stacks of paper to fill a half dozen phone books. “Excuse the mess,” he said as we entered. “You can have a seat. I’m a little behind on some paper work, as you can no doubt tell.”
There were two nice chairs facing his desk. I took one. “I remember the days.”
“You were in law enforcement?” he asked, took his own seat.
“CID, back in London.”
“Not familiar with that one,” he said.
“Like CSI, without the sunglasses. But that was a lifetime ago. Sometimes I miss it, but seeing this makes me feel better.”
“No doubt.” He took a sip of coffee. “Get ya anything to drink?”
“Coffee.”
He disappeared for a moment, came back and handed me a cup. I sipped from the Styrofoam cup. It was weak, room-temperature. I took another sip and set it on the edge of his desk.
“Alright, well, the Gables’ case,” Anderson said. “What do you want to know?”
“What can you tell me?”
He scratched his chin for a minute, thinking. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the attack on Clint Johnson?”
“Eric mentioned it. I’d like to hear your thoughts.”
He shrugged. “Nothing to say. We’ve been over every inch of that house, no entry, no exit, no one saw anything, including Clint Johnson. No weapon of any kind found. No blood evident on Adam Gables.”
“A spirit?”
He laughed stiffly, clearly not a believer. “Like a ghost?” He took another sip of coffee. With a chuckle, he said, “As far-fetched as that sounds, it’s better than what we got. No leads, no suspects.”
“Ever think he did it to himself? Eric says Clint and Adam never got along. Clint cuts himself up, Adam takes a huge fall. Adam doesn’t talk to stand up for himself.”
“You’re a strange man, Mr. Swyftt.”
“Call me Jono.”
“Why would you guess an 8-year-old boy would inflict forty-seven lacerations across his arms, chest, legs, back and face?”
My first thought? Possession of some kind – Lord knows I’d seen enough of that in my time. “My guess is his body wasn’t searched for a weapon. But the bathroom and Adam were.”
“My granddaddy was a doctor. He used to tell me, if you hear hoofbeats behind you, don’t expect a zebra.” He eyed me curiously. “I don’t know how they do things in England or what it was like being a kid in your home, but Clint Johnson’s a good kid.”
“Maybe,” I shrugged. In my line of business, every possible solution was one to consider. I hear hoofbeats, I think centaurs, satyrs, bonnacons, hippogriffs. I don’t stop to consider it or turn to look, I just get out of the fucking way. Tragically, rules like that were what kept the public ignorant of what was really going on. Nobody wants to stretch themselves anymore to believe; it’s all superstition and hokum. “And you checked the window?” I asked.
“Window was open, and the yard outside was searched. No weapons were found there. No tracks. The window frame was dusted for prints, came up clean.”
“I’ll admit, I’m intrigued. I’d like to help, Detective. Would it be possible for me to talk to the boy or visit the bathroom in question?”
“No need. You won’t get anything.”
“Perhaps not, but I’d like to try.” Surely, with my ability, I’d find something that they missed.
“I’d sure appreciate it if you could just leave that family alone, Mr. Swyftt. The Johnsons have been through plenty, and that’s not even the case we’ve been looking into. The real mystery here is where Adam Gables disappeared to.” He cleared his throat. “And honestly, that case has been put on the backburner for the time being. I’m tired of feeling like a dog chasing his tail.
We’re just waiting for the next move.”
“I’m sorry…next move?”
Anderson leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the corner of the desk. “There’s a theory floating around the department that this may be just another in a string of missing children lately, nearly a hundred kids in the Seattle area in the last five months.”
“That many?” I could feel a headache coming on. Suddenly the five cases I’d taken lately didn’t mean very much. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes. “I’m familiar with some of the abductions. I found three of them this morning. Dead. Some homeless guy squatting in an abandoned house. This can’t be related.”
Anderson was quiet. When I opened my eyes, he met my gaze seriously.
“We found three bodies in a house this morning. Someone phoned in gunshots. That was you, huh?” I shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll pardon my saying so, Mr. Swyftt, but it’s possible that it might be related. Too many broken records lately to be coinciden
ce.”
“How so?”
“Look, I probably shouldn’t be telling you all this, but Rebecca Gables is a good friend of mine and my hands are tied, so if this can help you find that boy, I’ll be able to sleep better at night.” He took another swig of coffee, wiped a little off his mustache. “That thing today? Same thing last week. Homeless guy the other side of town. One child found, barely alive. Still in intensive care. The bones of another found in a closet. Last month, an old factory in the Industrial district, night foreman saw a man loitering around, called it in. We get there in time to see a regular of the soup kitchen moving on from broth to a five-year-old girl. She’s alive, but she’ll be in a wheel chair the rest of her life from what that bastard did to her. The real kicker, each of these homeless abductees, fingers sharpened to the bone. None of them able to speak or be reasoned with.”
Anderson leaned back in his chair. Shot me one of those “I told you so” glances without having to say anything more.
“Can I talk to the girl, then? If all these are connected….”
“She’s been through enough already. Her family’s traumatized. The man who did it to her is dead, shot trying to attack one of the officers. There’s no need.”
I took a deep breath. “An underground ring of serial-kidnapping, cannibal bums? Not much for a punch-line.”
“Yeah, it’s not exactly floating with the FBI, either.”
“What FBI?”
But Anderson didn’t answer. It was a different voice, honey sweet and milky smooth, and more than a hint of sarcasm, resentment, and professional indignation. “Not the Funny Book of Insults.”
I could actually smell her before she spoke: Cinnamon vanilla and something floral. Intoxicating, really, and familiar.
I spun in my chair, saw those eyes, as brilliantly, hauntingly blue as the shirt she wore under the black pantsuit, blonde ponytail, and smug expression. Natasha Stone, FBI, was leaning against the doorframe, arms and legs crossed.
“Don’t get up, Mr. Swyftt. I do believe we’re well acquainted.”
I could feel the smile stretch across my face. “Agent Stone. So good to see you again, love.”
She forced a smile as she entered the room. I thought she might take the chair next to me and stay awhile, but she merely stood over me like a scornful parent. “Special Agent, actually.”
“Right, sorry, love. Forgot about your short-bus education.”
“Charming as always. Now, I’m afraid this is a Federal Investigation, Mr. Swyftt and as such, the details are classified. So why don’t you run on back to your playhouse and let the professionals handle this.”
“Like this morning?”
She didn’t even bat an eyelash. “So that was you fleeing the scene of the crime. I thought I recognized that stink. You realize I could have you arrested…”
“For what?”
“For murdering my suspect, thus hindering his ability to get a fair and unbiased trial before I lock his ass away for life and close another case.”
“You smell so fucking pretty,” I said. “You wanna grab a coffee or something? I’m just wrapping up here.”
Her laugh was cold and strange.
I thumbed over my shoulder, trying to be as playful as I could. “I’m sure Detective Anderson will loan us a key to one of those jail cells back there, Pretty. Why don’t we just shag now and cut the tension.”
She didn’t look amused. “I’ve got a jail cell for you, alright. If you interfere again in a federal crime scene, I won’t hesitate to use it.” Then she turned and stormed out of the room.
“Hate to see you go, love…,” I mused, catching a wink.
“I take it you know her.” Anderson sounded like a curious little kitten.
I threw him some yarn to play with. “Old friend. About ten years ago when she was a rookie agent, I helped her crack the case that made her what she is today.”
“What, she hire you?”
“Hire me and take all the credit herself? That would be unethical, I might think.” I shot him a wicked grin. “I wasn’t free-lance then. I worked with a group of…specialists. We were working the same case from different angles, our paths crossed.”
“Guess you guys don’t see eye-to-eye anymore,” he offered over the rim of his coffee mug.
“That was ten years ago. People change.” I was getting a little tired of the conversation. “So about this case…”
“What happened to the specialists?”
I sighed. “They’re around. You can hire them if you know where to look.”
“Like the A-Team?” he chuckled.
Yes, like the fucking A-Team. Idiot. “More like the Ghostbusters.” I set one of my business cards on his desk. He just watched me, dopily. “Seeing that the FBI doesn’t buy into the hobo kidnapping ring, there’s a bunch of closed or cold cases, Detective. If you find a moment, I’d sure appreciate a list of names for those missing kids, for Rebecca Gables, of course. Going back, you said…five months?”
He picked the card up. “Couldn’t hurt. Give me a few hours, Mr. Swyftt. I’ll have somebody get that information over to you. Fax number on the….” He looked at the card. “Paranormal investigations, eh? You’re not that psychic they talk about in Precinct 8…?”
I stood from the chair and walked to the door. “If I were psychic, I wouldn’t need your help now, would I?” Judging from the look that fell across his face, that one got him thinking. “Number’s on the card. I’ve gotta go chase up a lead.”
“Will do.”
“Cheers,” I said and left the office, stalked back through the sea of desks and cubicles, past phone-sex at the reception desk, and back out into the night.
Seeing Stone again set me off. Maybe what I told him wasn’t completely accurate, but there was a history there. One I didn’t want to think about right now.
I needed a distraction. I needed to work. If I could only wrap my head around this case.
As I began to drive, I started to think how an underground ring of serial-kidnapping, cannibal bums sounded a bit like black magic and remembered what Ape had said, maybe that tramp in the house had found some ritual in some dumpster. Maybe there was a new kind of cult. Whatever it was, it had me curious.
I needed answers.
5
When you’ve been at this as long as I have, you learn a few tricks. You meet people you can trust. You also meet people you wouldn’t trust if your life depended on it, but you know they won’t lie to you because they’re fucking weaker than you. That was my informant, Seven.
I hadn’t seen him since that shit went down at the Children’s Hospital. I’d had to squeeze him for information, but he wouldn’t talk willingly, as the Centaur was one of his sodding poker buddies or some shit. I got scary.
Problem was, since then, he’d been avoiding me. I didn’t know where he lived, just his usual haunts. He wasn’t at any of them. I knew one other place, but wasn’t too eager to go back there. It didn’t open until after dark, anyway, so I had some time to kill.
I decided to swing back by the office, check the messages, call Ape. There was still no answer at the house. I pulled out the little card in my wallet that had his cell number and dialed that. His voicemail picked up.
As I hung up the phone, I had another thought.
I dialed the seven digits I’d committed to memory almost two decades ago. There was no answer, no message. Just a beep, and then I spoke. “This message is for anyone but Hunter. This is Swyftt. I’m looking into a case involving missing children, wonder if maybe you’ve heard something and we can compare notes.” I left the office number and the number for the house. That was it.
I didn’t know what else to say. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in the Hand of Shanai in ten years on principal alone, but thought if anyone had a lead on what was happening, it might be them. I was fucking man enough to nut up and be the bigger bloke. After all, they were a group of Night-hunters what kept the shit from hitting the proverbial fan when it
came to the fucking Midnight. If this thing really was as big as Anderson led me to believe, I could use their fucking help.
I knew procedure. If anyone was monitoring the line, they would call back within minutes. Of course, it might take longer, but I was killing time anyway, so I waited.
I opened the drawer in my desk and pulled out a small Crown Royal pouch. Untied it and tipped the contents into my open hand: a heavy silver coin, engraved on one side with the Fleur-de-lis. The coin was given to all new members of the Hand. I guess I never gave mine back.
I turned the coin over a few times, stopped eventually at the backside, absently rubbed the faded, inscribed letters: Allons, Dieu ayde. It was French: “Let us go on, God assists us.”
“If only that were still true.”
I replaced the coin in the pouch and set it back in the drawer next to a long, rectangle box about the size of a television remote. Took the box, held it in both hands, and thumbed the top open.
Inside was a flawless, six-sided, lavender amethyst, Marquise-cut and roughly as wide as a credit card. It was mounted on polished ebony, only slightly bigger than the gem itself, backed with a blue bird’s feather, and flanked on either side by lavish beads and dried bones.
There wasn’t much light in my office, but what little there was danced and shimmered across the gem as if from a distance, the way the sun looked when seen from underwater. It was as hauntingly beautiful as winter fire, eerily cold and invitingly warm.
I stared at it for a while, but didn’t really see the gem – just what it represented. It had belonged to my mentor, a Haitian voodoo man called Solomon Huxley. One of the few I called friend. Huxley trained me, opened me up to the world of the Midnight, and was proof enough that not everyone in the Hand was a complete fuck-hole like Hunter.
Then, as if waking from a trance, I snapped the box closed and slipped it into my pocket.