The Black Knight Chronicles

by John G. Hartness

  “Now,” I told him, “bowl this ball and then come meet us at that table.” I gestured to where Greg had settled in at a round plastic table with a pitcher of cheap beer and four plastic cups. “Bring your lawyer if you need to.” I let go of his wrist and went over to the table with Greg.

  Mason beat his client over to our table and began issuing a list of demands in a nasal, demanding tone that probably had Greg rethinking his stance against drinking from annoying humans. That was my criteria. Since I find pretty much everyone annoying, I drink from whoever I want to. Greg doesn’t realize that my list of annoying people is about six billion names longer than his.

  At the moment, Mason was top of the list. If I couldn’t eat him, then he had to go. I leaned forward looked straight into his eyes and said, “Go to the men’s room. Sit in a stall. Fall asleep for two hours. Then go do that thing you’ve always wanted to do but have been afraid would be too embarrassing.”

  Mason got up with a decidedly glassy look in his eyes and headed for the crapper.

  I leaned back in my chair. “Well, that’s one nuisance taken care of.”

  “You’re evil. What do you think he’ll do?” Greg asked.

  “I don’t even want to think about it. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it involved anything from playing naked in the pond at Freedom Park to scaling the outside of the Bank of America building.”

  Joe Arthur, the Tire King himself, joined us at our table after picking up the spare. “Where’s Mason?” he asked.

  “He went to the can. Something about an upset stomach,” I replied. Greg snorted a little beer out of his nose, and I kicked him under the table.

  “Fine. You’ve got me alone. What’s this about?” Arthur asked, obviously a man used to being in charge.

  I decided to put an end to that as quickly as possible. I reached into the briefcase Greg had brought in from the car and brought out a stack of photographs. Smiling faces began to litter the table in front of us, some of the pictures curling a little as they soaked up spilled beer on the table. I didn’t care. I wanted to watch Arthur’s face as he realized who these children were. Ten pictures—school pictures, family vacation shots, all pictures of happy kids, beaming into the camera.

  “Do you know who these kids are, Mr. Arthur?” I leaned forward, forcing his attention away from the photos and to my eyes. He looked up and I could see that he was shaken. There was something going on with this guy, and I needed to know what it was. He didn’t smell like malice, more like mischief, but he was involved in something somehow.

  “These are the kids that have gone missing. But I don’t know anything about—”

  I cut him off before he could go any further. “I know that, Mr. Arthur. You’re not a suspect in these disappearances. But you were at seven of these children’s schools in the days shortly before they went missing. You were there for Career Day, right?”

  “Not all of them. Some of those Career Day things I sent Jake instead.”

  “Jake?” Greg sat forward. We hadn’t heard anything about a Jake before now. “Who’s Jake?”

  “Jake’s the manager of my Pineville store. I sent him to the schools on the south side of town, ‘cause they’re closer to him. But what’s this got to do with me? I don’t know anything about any of this stuff.”

  But he did—I could see it in his eyes, and more importantly, I could smell the little sweat that comes with fear. After a while you figure out what different kinds of fear smell like. For example, innocent oh-crap-I’m-about-to-get-eaten-by-a-vampire fear smells completely different than guilty as sin yeah-I-really-raised-a-super-demon-and-I’m-lying-out-my-butt-about-it fear. Joe’s fear was somewhere between I-cheated-on-my-taxes fear and I’ve-got-corpses-buried-under-my-tomato-plants fear.

  I turned the fear smell inside out, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on the cause. I was so busy playing “Name That Fear” that I didn’t sense a disturbance in the force until I heard Greg whisper “Oh, crap.”

  Chapter 16

  Okay, fine, you got me. I didn’t sense a disturbance in the force. But I did notice a silence fall over the bowling alley and smell a wave of fear rippling out from the main entrance. I looked over at the front door and saw the female detective from the night before talking to the shoe rental guy. He pointed to where we were sitting with the Tire King, and she started our way.

  “Looks like we might have to come back to this conversation later, Mr. Arthur,” I said, getting to my feet and looking for another exit.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Arthur asked, getting up himself and blocking my escape route. “You can’t come in here and make all these accusations then go running out on me. You sit your skinny ass right back down here and tell me what you think I have to do with those missing kids!”

  I leaned down to the Tire King’s face, which had gone an interesting splotchy purple color. I looked in his eyes and said, “Sleep.”

  He passed out cold and fell face-first onto the table, crushing his plastic cup full of Miller with his forehead. I turned him to the side to make sure he wouldn’t drown in cheap beer and tried to formulate a plan.

  “What are we gonna do?” Greg asked.

  “I was really hoping you’d have a plan.” My mind worked as fast as it could, which really isn’t that fast, all things considered.

  “I never have a plan. At least, not one you like.”

  He had a point there. Greg’s plans usually involved some expensive piece of equipment that only existed in comic books, or so many plot twists that by the time he finished explaining the plan, I’d already punched somebody.

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything. But obviously tonight ain’t it.” I stood up as the detective got to our table.

  The look on her face dispelled any lingering hope that she hadn’t noticed me looking out Tommy’s hospital-room window. She was tall, and she’d pulled her curly hair back in a severe ponytail. Her blazer was pulled back to reveal an impressive rack, but my attention was drawn to her Smith & Wesson .40 pistol in a shoulder rig. I’ll admit it, I have a bit of a thing for women who pack heavier ammo than me.

  She snapped her fingers in front of my face and brought me straight out of my happy place and back to the beer-soaked bowling alley. “This would be an excellent time for you to explain to me who you are and why you keep showing up around my investigation.”

  The look on her face said she was a woman who brooked no BS, but I never let that stop me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, holding out my hand and dropping into the hick accent I grew up with. “I think you must have me mistaken for somebody else. I’m Jimmy Black, assistant manager at the Monroe location of Joe’s World of Tires. Can I help you with . . . something?” I put a little sleazy twist in there and ogled her chest, trying to make myself look like a slimy tire salesman.

  Ogling her chest was not hard to do. More like a job perk.

  “Really?” She said, and raised one eyebrow as if she knew something I didn’t. “There is no Monroe location of Joe’s World of Tires, and you’re no more a tire salesman than I am a private investigator. Why don’t you cut the crap, Mr. Black and tell me what you and your little friend here are doing screwing up my investigation before I haul you both downtown and book you on obstruction of justice charges.”

  I knew going legit and getting PI licenses would come back to bite me in the ass. And the irony of that concept is not lost on me. Having failed so miserably with Plan A, I skipped the as-yet-undeveloped Plan B and went straight for the mojo. I looked her in the eyes, which was surprisingly easy since she was almost my height, and said, “These are not the droids you’re looking for. Move along.”

  “Are you on drugs?”

  I looked over at Greg, who was as flabbergasted as I was. Mojo didn’t fail. This was entirely unexpected. Surprise didn’t help me process or communicate. “Huh?”

  “You are on drugs. Great, just great. Not only do I have a PI sticking his nose in my case, I ha
ve a stoner PI sticking his nose in my case. Get up. You two are coming with me.”

  I looked at her again, and got serious with the mojo, really tried to supplant her will with mine. “No, we’re not. You will leave here and forget you ever saw us. You came in, Joe Arthur was passed out drunk, he has nothing to do with these disappearances and you left. That is all.”

  She looked back at me just as hard and said “You are a pain in my butt, and you are going to jail for interfering with my investigation.”

  Since my vampire willpower wasn’t working, Greg stepped in for the save. “Sorry to disappoint, but we’re not going anywhere with you. I’m sorry we’ve run into this misunderstanding, but it’s not going to happen. Now why don’t you get in your car, go back to the station, and forget you ever ran into us this evening.”

  Greg’s best mojo netted equally disappointing results and a disgusted headshake from the officer.

  Both of us were seeing this cop in a whole new light. I’d never run into anyone who could shrug off multiple vamp mojo attempts, but this chick evidently had a will of cast iron.

  She reached around to her belt and grabbed a radio, clicking it on as she brought it to her lips. “This is Detective Law. I need a wagon at Lucky Strike for two passengers.” She put the radio back on her belt and looked at us. “You two are going to spend the night in a holding cell while I figure out exactly what I’m going to charge you with. Unless you have a really good story and start sharing it with me right now.”

  “Um . . . we were hired by the family of one of the kidnapped girls?” I offered up.

  “The Reynolds family?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “No, you weren’t. They called me as soon as you left there. I left instructions with every family to call me as soon as the vultures, and that means you, started coming around, so that I could run you off. So you came around, they called, and voilà! Here I am, running you off.”

  “But . . . but . . . ,” I spluttered. I’m not proud of it, but splutter was the best I could come up with.

  “But how did I find you? Mrs. Arthur also called me, and told me that you had just left her house, and were probably headed here to harass her husband publicly. Looks like she has some shred of marital loyalty left. And here we are.”

  “And here we are,” I muttered. Here I was in the middle of a brightly lit public space with a human that I couldn’t put the whammy on.

  This was so far outside the norm, I was totally stumped. Greg and I had been bespelling humans for fun and foodstuffs for the better part of two decades, and nothing like this had ever happened before. Primitive survival instincts kicked in. We shared a look that said, “You wanna hit her or you want me to?” and I had just decided to deck the pretty detective in front of about seventy witnesses when her cell phone rang.

  She pulled out her phone and pressed a button. “Law”

  Thanks to our super-duper hearing, Greg and I had the benefit of following both sides of the conversation.

  A disembodied voice said, “Detective, we have another abduction. Marjorie Ryan was last seen leaving a school dance with three of her friends forty-five minutes ago. Her friends all arrived home, but Marjorie did not. We’ve established a perimeter between the school and the home, and we have a chopper in the air. What’s your twenty?”

  “Lucky Strike bowling alley. I was about to question a potential suspect. Obviously, he’s not our guy. I’m on my way, should be there in fifteen.”

  I held up my hands and started to back away, saying, “You’ve obviously got a lot going on, so we’ll get out of your way. Good luck catching the bad guys!”

  “Don’t even think about moving. As a matter of fact, you two are still going downtown, if for nothing else than to keep you out of my hair. No way do I need you mucking around my crime scene and getting in my way. Gimme your right hands.” She reached behind her and grabbed a pair of handcuffs.

  I shook my head. “Look, Detective. You don’t have enough to charge us with anything, and handcuffing us and leaving us here is a bad idea no matter whose police procedure manual you cite.” I thought if mojo wasn’t working then maybe I could appeal to her sense of reason. “If you think you need to keep an eye on us, take us along. My partner and I have a lot of experience in unusual cases. We could probably be helpful if you’d just let us.”

  “Okay, maybe you would be useful.” She seemed to relent, and reached out to shake my hand. Without thinking, I took her hand, and just like in a thousand bad cop movies, she slapped a cuff on it. Then she reached over to the swivel chair mounted to the scoring station and locked the other cuff around it.

  “Now stay put. You,” she said to Greg, “give me your keys.”

  He reached in his pocket and handed her the keys to the Pontiac. “I’m gonna get those back, right?” he asked, looking like a whipped puppy.

  “Sure. You can pick them up at the station downtown tomorrow morning. I’ll be sure to have them there by nine.” With that, she turned and headed for the door. I sat down with my arm twisted uncomfortably behind me and looked over at Greg, who took the other seat.

  “This would be a very good time to tell me you have a spare set of car keys,” I said, glaring at him.

  “Under the back bumper, bro. No worries.”

  “Good, then I won’t have to strangle you in your sleep.”

  “I don’t breathe, so it wouldn’t make any difference.”

  “It would make me feel better.”

  “Yeah, I can see where you might be a little disgusted with yourself for falling for the old handshake/handcuff switcheroo.” He looked unbearably smug sitting there. I hate it when he’s got the right answers for things. It messes with the natural order of the universe.

  “So, how you planning on getting out of there?”

  I stood up and stepped around behind the chair, hiding the handcuff from the rest of the bowling alley with my body. I twisted and pulled, but couldn’t get enough leverage to get it off my arm. The cuff groaned a little. I shoved the metal band further up my forearm until it was nice and tight. I flexed one more time, but all I got for my trouble was a red mark around my arm and a couple of stares from a passing waitress.

  “Did somebody forget to eat his Wheaties this morning?” Greg asked. “You should be able to snap that like a pretzel.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I can’t get a good angle on the cuff. Time for Plan B.” I reached down and grabbed the back of the chair with my free hand. I worked the molded plastic for a minute, couldn’t get it to give at all, and finally just ripped the whole seat free of the swivel, which consisted of cheap metal fastenings. I stood there in the middle of the bowling alley with a chair hanging from one wrist. “Let’s go,” I snarled at Greg, who was having trouble getting to his feet because he was laughing so hard.

  I trudged to the front door, pausing long enough to tell the counter guy that the chair in lane nine was busted, and dragged the stupid chair all the way out the mall entrance to the parking lot, attracting more than one strange look on the way. I got to the car and reached under the bumper. I felt around and pulled out one of those magnetic key boxes, and slid it open, only to find a business card for Detective Sabrina Law. She had written a note on the back of the card saying, “Hide it better next time.”

  Greg made it out to the parking lot in time to laugh some more at the sight of a gangly six-foot-three-inch vampire stomping around the lot cursing inventively and swinging a plastic chair around his head by a handcuff.

  “Dude, hold still, let me get you out of that thing,” he said when I stopped swearing and flailing.

  He reached into a pocket of his utility belt and brought out a small folding saw, the kind they sell at sporting goods stores. I thought of about seventeen wisecracks, but decided I valued emancipation from the bowling alley furniture over a good zinger and held my tongue. His little saw was surprisingly effective, and in a couple of minutes, I was free.

  Well, mostly free. I still had a handc
uff dangling from my wrist, but there was no longer a giant hunk of molded plastic attached to it. Some nights you can only ask for so much, and this was shaping up to be one of those.

  “I don’t suppose you have another set of keys in that belt, do you?” I asked hopefully.

  “No, but I have the next best thing,” Greg replied.

  Before I could ask what exactly that was, he reached under my arm, grabbed my Glock and walked over to where a young couple was doing what young couples do in the back lanes of parking lots. Greg tapped on the glass with the pistol, and then put his fist through the back passenger window. He pulled a skinny teenage kid out through the window, pointed the gun at his rapidly shriveling pride and joy, and hinted that the kid should run away. Then he leaned into the back window, smiled at the girl broadly enough to show a lot of fang, and laughed as she beat a hasty retreat out the other door. He tossed a T-shirt at her retreating, and naked, back, and reached into the floor of the backseat for the boy’s pants.

  “Subtle. That looked like something I would do,” I said as I walked around and got into the passenger seat. Greg had retrieved the car keys from the boy’s pants by then, settled himself behind the wheel and put the car in gear.

  “Sorry,” he said without an ounce of remorse. “I was under the impression that we were in a hurry. Problem solved.”

  He peeled rubber out of the parking lot and handed me back my gun. I tuned the radio to an oldies station and cranked some vintage Springsteen as we headed off to the site of the latest kidnapping. I wasn’t sure what our detective friend would think about our appearing at her crime scene, but I wasn’t too inclined to care. We only had about forty-eight hours to stop the summoning of a serious metaphysical beastie from taking place, and our Big Bad was now one ankle-biter closer to its quota.