by Maynard Sims
“Simon?” Carter said as he padded across the grass towards the boy.
“Have you come to play?” the boy said.
“If you want to. What would you like to play?”
The boy kicked off with his feet, propelling himself forward. “You can push me if you like. But push me hard. I want to reach the sun.” He squinted up into the sky.
“That’s a tall order.”
“You’re a tall man.”
Carter moved behind him and pushed the swing. “Are you Simon?” he asked again.
“Yes,” the boy said as he swung higher. “You can’t stay here. You have to move on.”
“Yes, I know,” Carter said. “But I can’t see a way out of the garden.”
“There’s a gate in the wall,” Simon said.
Carter was about to ask what wall the boy was talking about when he saw it. A hundred yards away and built from lichen-spotted red brick, the high wall encircled the garden. There was a heavy wooden door at its center.
“What’s on the other side of the door?” Carter said.
The swing was almost at its apex.
The boy looked down at him. “That’s where the monsters live,” he said on his descent.
Carter turned his attention back to the door. “What kind of monsters?” he asked. He glanced behind him but the boy, Simon, had vanished, the empty swing hanging still and listless in the sunshine.
The door beckoned. Carter blinked and in a second he was standing in front of it, his hand grasping the heavy, black, wrought iron handle. A twist and the door opened. Without hesitation Carter moved through, leaving the garden behind him.
In sharp contrast to the sunshine of childhood, the world he now entered was dark and gloomy, the air laden with a persistent drizzle that fell from a heavy, leaden sky. There was a chill to the air here that seeped into his bones, making him shiver.
The landscape was moorland, bracken and heather covering the ground in a dense muddy-green carpet. Things were moving through the undergrowth, things that crawled and slithered, refusing to show themselves clearly but whose presence chilled him more than the cold, dank air. Ahead of him, a quarter of a mile away was a house, not the gothic mansion of nightmares and ghost stories, but a modern, detached house with pale yellow brickwork and a red tiled roof. It stood in a circle of bright-green, healthy-looking grass, an oasis in the otherwise bleak vista. He pictured himself standing at the front door of the house and closed his eyes. When he opened them he found he hadn’t moved an inch.
He tried again with the same result. Something was stopping him.
“I’m trying to make it easy for you,” he called out, hoping that some part of Crozier’s mind would respond. “Stop blocking me!”
When he tried closing his eyes again and still didn’t move he swore viciously and struck out across the bracken.
Progress was slow. The ground beneath the bracken was soft, muddy, and he found his feet sinking as the mud sucked at his shoes. As he moved forward thorn-sharp bramble shoots clutched at his clothes and dug their needle points into his ankles, drawing blood.
The house seemed no closer. Something slithered over his foot and he cried out, yanking his leg away and almost losing his balance. Breathless, he stopped and closed his eyes again, willing himself forward. When he opened them again he hadn’t moved, but there was a figure in the distance. A boy, older and taller than the one in the garden.
The boy lifted his arm and beckoned. “This way!” he called and then turned and started to move towards the house. Carter gritted his teeth and followed him.
This way was easier. The ground was firmer and the vegetation less dense, He was starting to close the gap between himself and the house, never once losing sight of the boy who seemed to be moving effortlessly forward. Once or twice the boy glanced back at him, offering an encouraging smile.
“Simon?” Carter called.
The boy looked back and nodded. A teenage Simon Crozier leading him out of the tangled jungle of his own adolescence.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Bailey took out his cell phone and dialed a number. “John, how’s it going?”
McKinley slipped out of the room. Keeping his voice low he said, “He’s still in there. How he’s doing is anybody’s guess.”
“I have Abraham Stern with me. He’s going to be helping us out. Get back here as soon as you can.”
“Yes, I will,” McKinley said and went back to the room.
Crozier lay on the bed, his eyes closed, breathing deeply. Robert Carter sat at his bedside, his eyes closed also, but his breath more ragged, lines of concentration etched on his brow. McKinley crossed the room almost silently and sat down on the chair in the corner. He checked his watch. So far Carter had been in Crozier’s mind for twenty-five minutes and was showing no signs of progress at all. McKinley crossed his legs and prepared to bide his time.
Carter reached the house and approached the front door. The teenage Simon Crozier had disappeared around the side of the building and Carter didn’t feel inclined to follow him any farther. With luck he had reached the center of Crozier’s mind, the hub. As he approached the door he saw it was open. Crozier was helping him. No locks and bolts. Easy access.
Carter nudged the door fully open with the toe of his shoe and stepped inside. Almost immediately the door slammed shut behind him. He could hear locks clicking and bolts sliding home. Adjusting his eyes to the gloom inside the house, Carter began to make sense of his surroundings.
He was standing in a large circular hallway, perhaps fifty feet in diameter. Doors were set in the wall of the hallway at regular intervals. Any one of them could lead him to the answer he was looking for; any one of them could lead him down a blind alley or, perhaps, into areas of Crozier’s private thoughts he had no wish to visit. There were at least thirty of them and Carter didn’t have a clue where to start. This could take a very long time and he was growing weary. The effort of getting this far had taxed his concentration far more that he had anticipated.
“You’ll have to help me out here,” he said aloud. “Which door?”
He stood in the center of the hallway and waited. After what seemed like an age there was a soft click and one of the doors swung inwards.
“Thank you,” he said and moved towards the open door.
The room behind the door was a carbon copy of Crozier’s office in Whitehall. The same smoked-glass desk, uncluttered and pristine, the same prints hanging from the walls, the same office furniture in leather and chrome.
“So how is this supposed to help me?” Carter muttered. He moved to the desk and sat down in the facsimile of Crozier’s office chair. Next to the phone sat a MacBook, the screen blank. His hand hovered over the wireless mouse and the screen came to life. There was no picture on the desktop, just a series of icons and a couple of untitled folders. He hovered over one of the folders and clicked to open it.
His eyes scanned the document quickly but it contained nothing more than the minutes of meetings held recently at the Department. He scrolled down a page that seemed to go on forever. Crozier was thorough to the point of obsession. The minutes of the meetings were there in full, but they had been annotated endlessly and painstakingly. Some of the points he made were reasonable, in others the comments were sharp and barbed and in some petulant and petty. This was his internal filing system, his way of keeping on top of a demanding job.
Carter closed the folder and opened the next one on the screen. There were twenty-five files in the folder, each with the title Alvar Liscombe followed by a number. He opened Alvar Liscombe One and settled back to read.
“Would one of you mind explaining to me what the hell is going on here?” Maria Bridge said as she walked into Crozier’s room.
McKinley jumped to his feet as if he had been stung and put his finger to his lips. “Sshh!” He took Bridge by th
e arm and steered her out of the room.
“What the hell is going on?” she said once they were out in the corridor.
“I thought Harry would have explained it to you,” McKinley said.
A shadow passed in front of her eyes. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday evening and let’s just say he wasn’t very communicative. So what’s going on?”
McKinley explained briefly what they were attempting. “It was Harry’s idea,” he added, trying to mollify her.
“Well, as ideas go it’s a fairly shit one,” she said. “With everything Mr. Crozier’s been through over the past few days, this is about the last thing he needs.”
“It’s very important.”
“So you say. But what I’m saying is that Mr. Crozier needs to rest and I won’t allow my patient’s wellbeing to be compromised in this way.”
“Perhaps you should call Harry.”
“Perhaps you and your friend should get the hell out of here before I call the police.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Carter said as he walked out into the corridor.
“Are you done?” McKinley said, surprised.
“I’ve got all I can. We’re finished here.” He turned to Bridge. “He’s sleeping now. I’d let him rest if I were you.” He smiled at Maria Bridge, ignoring her furious scowl. “Come on, John. Let’s get back to Whitehall.”
“This is Abraham Stern,” Bailey said as McKinley and Carter walked into the office.
Stern propelled his bulk out of the chair and offered his hand.
“Good to have you on board,” McKinley said as he pumped Stern’s hand.
“I think you should call Madaki and get him in here,” Bailey said.
“I called him on the way back from the hospital,” McKinley said. “He’s on his way now.”
Bailey nodded approvingly. “How did you get on, Rob?”
Carter pulled up a chair and sat at the desk. Probing Simon Crozier’s mind had drained him more than he cared to admit. He was bone tired and had a headache niggling away behind his eyes. “I can see why they tried to take him out,” he said. “Everything he knows about Alvar Liscombe is there, stored away in his mind. His brain is like a hard-drive—everything filed, all very neat and tidy.” He didn’t mention the adolescent jungle he had encountered. No matter what he felt about Simon Crozier the man, there were lines that shouldn’t be crossed.
“Does it move us forward at all?” Bailey asked.
“Not that I can see. I have all the information about Liscombe up here.” He tapped the side of his head. “But I’m not sure it’s going to help us bring down Schroeder.”
“We must do something before it’s too late,” Bailey said.
Stern was pacing the room, seemingly deep in thought. “What you found out about Liscombe, was it before or after his encounter with the dybbuk?” he asked Carter.
“There’s stuff there written by Liscombe himself that I would say was pre-dybbuk. The material written about Liscombe, I would say, is post. There are several reports about his erratic behavior and several more about his disappearance. He pissed a lot of people off. Including Everett Deayton, who writes as if he’s been betrayed in some way.”
“Deayton was not only Liscombe’s deputy but also his closest friend and confidante,” Bailey said. “I’m guessing he was shut out once the dybbuk took control of Liscombe.”
“You’re missing something,” Stern said.
“What?” Carter said.
“Something,” Stern said. “A piece of information that links Liscombe and Deayton. Something that Crozier read that immediately put him in danger.”
Carter sighed and sat back in his seat. “Well, what that might be is anybody’s guess.”
“Deayton said that, to his knowledge, Liscombe only had one encounter with the dybbuk, and he was possessed during that encounter,” Bailey said. “What if there was more than one?”
“What are you driving at, Harry?” McKinley asked.
“What if Liscombe knew what he was going up against? Think about it. When we take on a fresh investigation we research the subject exhaustively. We explore every aspect as much as we possibly can. I’ve no doubt Liscombe would have done the same. I’m suggesting that he knew exactly what the dybbuk was before he took it on.”
“And still fell foul of it,” Stern said.
“Yes, he did, but what if he discovered the dybbuk’s original body was hidden somewhere. Maybe he figured out where it was?”
“That’s quite a leap,” Stern said.
“Maybe, but it would explain why Simon was attacked.”
“Original body?” McKinley said. “I’m sorry, have I missed something?”
“Something Abe here told me yesterday. Some dybbuks preserve their original bodies, God knows how they do it. I suppose it’s as a kind of bolt hole in case they are threatened. If you destroy the original body, you destroy the dybbuk. So they hide them away and keep them safe. What I’m saying is that it’s possible Liscombe discovered where Schroeder was keeping his.”
“But there’s no evidence to support that theory,” McKinley said. “If he knew it was a way to destroy the dybbuk, knew where it was, why didn’t he seek it out and destroy it?”
“Would you have known to do that, Harry, if I hadn’t told you?” Stern said. “I didn’t know myself until I read Aaronson’s book.”
Bailey shook his head. “We must give some weight to the theory,” he said.
Carter was sitting with his eyes closed, letting the conversation wash over him. “Stonegate.” he said.
“What’s Stonegate?” Bailey said.
Carter hushed him. “Give me a moment. I’m trying to bring it to mind.”
Thirty seconds passed and then Carter’s eyes snapped open.
“It was something Liscombe wrote. I still don’t know what to do about Stonegate. And then in one of the later documents Everett Deayton wrote, Alvar told me about Stonegate, but I’m not sure he ever acted on it. Personally I think he was barking up the wrong tree.”
“And that’s it?” Bailey said. “There were no other references?”
Carter shook his head. “No. That’s the only one I can think of.”
“So what’s Stonegate?” McKinley asked.
No one answered him.
Bailey picked the phone, tapped in a number and waited.
“Martin Impey.”
“Martin, it’s Harry. I want you to run a search on Stonegate.”
“What’s Stonegate?” Impey said.
“I haven’t got a clue. Find everything you can. We’ll filter it when you’re done.”
“Thanks,” Impey said. “You believe in making my job easy, don’t you?”
Bailey hung up the phone.
“What do we do now?” Stern said.
“We wait for Martin to work his magic,” Bailey said.
Stern checked his watch. “I’m sorry, I can’t spend my time sitting on my backside waiting to see whether your man comes up with something or not. I have a ton of work to do back at the synagogue. Call me if he discovers anything useful.” He pushed himself to his feet and moved towards the door. As his fingers curled around the handle it was twisted out of his grip. The door opened and Tevin Madaki came into the room.
“Any news?” Madaki said as he entered. “You made it sound important, John.”
“It could be,” McKinley said. “It could be the breakthrough we’ve been hoping for.”
“Then again it could be something and nothing,” Carter said, bringing the conversation back to earth.
“Who’s this?” Madaki said, inclining his head towards Stern.
Stern stuck his hand out. “Abraham Stern,” he said and shook Madaki’s hand.
“Abe’s here to advise on the Jewish aspect of the case,” Bailey sai
d. “Tevin Madaki,” he said to Stern.
“So I gathered.”
“I have something for each of you.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out four small envelopes. He handed one each to McKinley, Carter and Bailey, and held on to the fourth. “This one’s for Ms. Talbot. I was expecting her to be here too.”
“Jane’s taken another personal day,” Carter said as he tore open the envelope and shook its contents out into the palm of his hand. McKinley and Bailey did the same.
McKinley held the Respark up between this thumb and forefinger. Letting it twist in the sunlight pouring in through the window of the office.
“You should each wear them constantly. They will protect you. I’m sorry, Mr. Stern. I didn’t know you would be here, otherwise I would have made one for you as well.”
Stern loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He fished inside and withdrew a gold chain. Hanging from the chain was a six-pointed Star of David medallion. “This gives me all the protection I need. But thank you for the thought.” He moved towards the door and turned to the others. “Call me if anything comes up.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
It was another hour before Martin Impey got back to them, by which time they were on their third cup of coffee.
“What have you got for us?” Bailey said.
“Well, the search parameters were pretty wide, but I excluded the chain of public houses and the various businesses that didn’t seem to bear any relevance to what we are investigating.”
“What does that leave you with?”
“There’s a town called Stonegate in Colorado in the States. There’s a village called Stonegate in East Sussex, but there’s not much there, a few houses, no shops—easy to miss as you’re driving through. Stonegate is one of the earliest named roads in the country—in York to be more precise. That one is steeped in history, going back to the eleven hundreds…”