He nodded slowly, his head gradually bobbing more rapidly as a look of discovery bloomed on his face. “Yeah, they absolutely are.”
“So there’s another connection,” Izzie said, writing “personality/memory loss” in the middle of the board below “vacuoles.”
Patrick had his hand on his chin, deep in thought. “Don’t forget this.” He stepped to the left and wrote “No Ink in Little Kovoko” and then “Tohuna symbols of protection?” directly below it.
Then he straightened up, and glanced at the ceiling while searching his memories.
“Hey,” he finally said, “when we were retracing the movements of the Reaper’s victims five years ago, do you remember if any of them were ever reported to be in the southwest corner of the Oceanview at any point?”
Izzie shook her head. “I don’t remember for sure one way or the other, but I don’t think so, no.” She thought for a minute, then added, “We’d have to check the case files to know for certain, though.”
“Just a thought.” Patrick scratched his chin. “I mean, like Joyce said, absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence, but it’s worth considering.”
“I see where you’re going with that, though,” Izzie said. “We’re already seeing all of these points of congruence between the Ink stuff and the things that Fuller raved about, so that’s a reasonable assumption to make. We’ll flag it for follow-up.”
“When we were at Founder’s Park with Joyce earlier, you said that you thought there might be a connection between Ink and the Undersight mine shaft itself.” He had walked over to the right side of the board and was looking closely at the web of associations surrounding “mine shaft.”
“Or whatever happened down there, anyway,” Izzie corrected.
“So?” He looked from the board over to her, raising an eyebrow. “What do you think happened down there? Did they find something? And if so, is it still down there?”
Izzie chewed her lower lip, then glanced back at the table. She walked over to where the surveys and blueprints were spread, and found the map that Fuller had marked with spirals and jagged shapes and other symbols. She put her finger on the complex geometric figure of angles and jagged lines that marked the location of the Undersight mine. “Is there any way to go down there and find out?”
Patrick was taking a long swig of his water, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before answering. “Isn’t it still owned by the University?”
Izzie shrugged. “I guess?”
“Maybe Ricardo Aguilar could help us out?” Patrick bobbed his head from side to side while considering the options. “During the Undersight project only team members were allowed to go down there, but Kono said that the whole operation was shut down after Fuller’s role in the Reaper killings became public knowledge.”
“Could be they still have it under lock and key,” Izzie said, nodding, “but maybe we could get someone to unlock it for us?”
“We could always get a warrant if we needed to.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “And what would you tell the judge, exactly? I thought you were trying to avoid a psych eval. You can’t very well walk in front of a judge and say, ‘Hey, I think the drug case I’m investigating is tied to some weird, possibly supernatural strangeness buried a few miles underground, can you help me go check it out?’ They’d put you under medical supervision before you could blink.”
“Okay, okay. Good point.” He sighed. “Well, we’ll just have to hope that Aguilar can help us, after all. He is still the department head, right?”
“So far as I know, yeah.” Izzie rested both hands on the table, looking past the mountains of Fuller’s madness at the constellations of names and phrases written on the dry erase board. “Damn, it feels like we’re getting close to something, but still missing a few key pieces of the puzzle. Like we can see the edges of it, the corners are filled in, but the bigger picture …”
She trailed off, shaking her head wearily.
“Like the idea is hanging just out of reach?” Patrick suggested.
She slumped down into a chair, her head falling back, eyes on the ceiling. “I’ll tell you one thing I do know for sure, and it’s that I’m exhausted.”
“Well, you did say you had a late night, as I recall.” He gave her a sly look. “Just what kind of trouble did you get into after I dropped you off, anyway?”
Izzie sat up, shaking her head. “Nope, nope, you didn’t pay to see those cards.” She rubbed the inner corners of her eyes with her fingertips, stifling a yawn. “But I really am beat, though. What time is it?”
Patrick checked his phone. “A bit after eight thirty.”
“Which is almost midnight, so far as my body’s internal clock is concerned. I’m still running on east coast time, I think. Maybe we should call it a day and pick this up again in the morning?”
“I like this plan,” Patrick answered, rolling down his shirt sleeves. “Want a lift back to your hotel?”
Izzie managed to push herself up onto her feet with a mild groan. “I hate that you have to keep chauffeuring me around like that. I can just call a cab or …”
“No, honestly, it’s no trouble.” He was putting back on his suit coat. “It’s not far out of my way home.”
“And where is home for you, anyway?” Izzie followed him out the door. “You still haven’t told me what part of town you live in.”
“Well,” he said with a grin as he locked the door shut behind them, “I guess you didn’t pay to see those cards, either.”
They were driving north on Mission when Izzie yawned so big that it felt like her jaw had practically dislocated. “You hungry?” Patrick asked without preamble, as they approached the intersection with Prospect Avenue. “We could stop somewhere to get a bite if you want, or …”
Izzie held up a hand to silence him. “Please. Please. I’m still full from lunch, Patrick. I won’t need to eat for another week, I’m guessing.”
He grinned. “Suit yourself. I’ll hit the food carts on the way home, because I am hungry.”
“Of course you are.” She turned and looked out at the buildings as they passed by. “Hey,” she said as she glanced back in his direction, “you’re not worried about leaving all of that crazy stuff written on the board in that meeting room, are you? What if Chavez or Harrison or somebody wanders in there and sees what we’re working on? Isn’t that likely to spark questions that you don’t really want to answer?”
“Nah, I’m not worried.” He leaned to one side and flicked his finger against the ring hanging from the ignition key, setting the other keys on it to jingling and dancing. “This is the only key that’s available to check out, so only the captain or the housekeeping staff could get in. And I know the captain won’t, because he hates that room—too many meetings with disgruntled community members, too many bad associations— and the housekeeping staff has been told not to clean it while there’s evidence in there, and it’s not like they’re bucking to do any more work than they absolutely have to do, anyway.”
Izzie nodded, mostly satisfied. She was still a little concerned about someone stumbling onto what they were really working on, but too tired at the moment to argue the point any further.
Patrick turned off Prospect Avenue and onto Hauser, and Izzie’s hotel loomed into view just ahead.
“Want to stop in at the Resident Agency again tonight?” he asked, as he pulled towards the curb.
Izzie wondered whether Daphne would still be at work this late, and felt a little thrill at the thought of spending time with her again. But no, there were complications she wanted to avoid, and personal rules to follow.
“No thanks.” She shook her head. “I think I’m going to go straight to bed, and hopefully get synced up with west coast time in the morning.”
Patrick pulled a U-turn so that he could drop her off on the west side of the street, and brought the car to a stop right in front of the hotel. “You up for breakfast in the morning, maybe?”
&nbs
p; Izzie laughed as she opened the door and swung her legs out onto the pavement. “Maybe. I guess. We’ll see?”
“It’s the most important meal of the day, Izzie.”
“Patrick,” she was on the curb, and leaned down to look back through the open door, “I’m reasonably sure that you think every meal is the most important meal of every day.”
He smirked. “Could be. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong, though.”
“Good night, Lieutenant Tevake.” She shut the door.
“Good night, Agent Lefevre,” he answered with a grin, and then drove away into the night.
Izzie trudged up the pavement to the front door, noted again the red brick façade, and hoped that it would be sufficient protection against bad spirits for her to sleep well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Izzie was having a drink in a bar with Daphne, talking about their past relationships, when someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was Trent, the cartoonist from Behind the Lines, who was there with his neighbor and long-time rival, Miles. Trent told her that he had something to show her, so Izzie took Daphne’s hand and they followed the two cartoonists out of the bar. But as soon as they got outside a man covered in black lesions drove by in a convertible, shouting obscenities at them, and Daphne let go of Izzie’s hand and took off running after it, shouting blistering obscenities back at the driver. Izzie almost followed, but Trent grabbed her elbow, and told her not to worry, that Daphne had personal rules that would protect her.
There was an elevator in the middle of the street, and when they got on, Trent pushed the button marked “ALL THE WAY DOWN.” As the elevator descended it made rattling sounds like a mine cart rolling over the rails, and the lights grew increasingly dim. Izzie was worried that they wouldn’t get there in time, but when she turned Patrick was beside her, and told her it was going to be okay, that he’d called ahead. The darkness was expecting them.
When the elevator doors opened, Izzie got turned around, and then discovered that she was alone, and decided that Patrick and Trent must have gotten off at some other floor along the way.
As she stepped out into the inky blackness, she wished that she still smoked cigarettes, so that maybe she’d have a lighter or a book of matches on her that could shed a little light. Then she remembered that she still had the lighthouse in her pocket from five years before. When she pulled it out, the illumination it cast was feeble and week, though underneath she could hear the rumblings of discordant speed metal, which somehow gave her a sense of comfort. Then she realized that what she was hearing was a speed metal cover of “Dancing Queen,” and she wondered if Joyce was in her office.
Then the Grim Reaper came out of the darkness towards her, black cloak draped over his silvery skeleton, with the light from Izzie’s lighthouse gleaming on the silver scythe he carried in one skeletal hand.
Izzie wanted to ask the Grim Reaper a question, but though her mouth was moving, she couldn’t seem to make any sound.
The Reaper seemed to understand what she meant to say, anyway, and nodded his silver skull once in consent. He turned and pointed into the darkness with the silver scythe.
Then, as Izzie started to walk past him, the Reaper reached out and took the lighthouse from her hands. She would have to continue without it, she understood. Or she wouldn’t find what she was looking for.
She kept walking into the inky blackness, a darkness so complete that she could not see her own hands before her. She continued to walk until she could no longer hear “Dancing Queen,” until the darkness was so complete that it swallowed up even the sounds of her own footsteps. She wondered if the sound was leaking into other spaces.
Izzie was still only mildly curious when she felt the sharp touch of something on the base of her skull, like a hornet’s sting. She didn’t raise her hands to swat it away, but kept her arms at her sides, hoping that it would leave her alone. Then she realized that she was no longer alone inside her mind, and that the thoughts that she was thinking were not her own. And then with sick certainty she knew that it was too late….
When she woke suddenly in the heavy-curtained darkness, the room drenched by the noise-cancelling susurration of the white noise app on her phone, Izzie was afraid that she was still trapped down in the dark far below ground. In the puzzling logic between slumber and wakefulness, she had trouble sorting out which was true memory and which she had merely dreamt.
Then the noise that had woken her chimed again.
It was the sound of an incoming text on her phone, the screen pulsing a slight glow as it beeped the notification a second time.
As Izzie fumbled for the phone, she glanced at the clock, and saw that it was almost 9:00 a.m. She’d slept for nearly twelve hours, but felt like she’d just nodded off.
“Damn it, Patrick,” she muttered when she saw the preview of the text message on the lock screen: “YOU UP FOR COFFEE? OR BREAKFAST, EVEN?” Then she saw that it wasn’t Patrick who had sent it.
Her pulse quickened, and for a brief instant her memories of the previous night mixed with the half-remembered events of the dream. Had she gone out for drinks last night? Had they held hands … ?
Izzie shook her head. No, that had just been in the dream. She hadn’t seen Daphne since the previous morning. But when Izzie had left the Resident Agency for the first time the day before that, she had given Daphne her phone number, telling her to text or call if there was ever a need to get in touch.
Which Daphne clearly thought the breakfast invitation merited.
Izzie began to type out a response with her thumbs, a terse but not impolite note declining the invite but thanking her anyway. But as her fingertip hung suspended over the Send button, she began to have second thoughts. She deleted the whole message, started fresh, and thumbed out an enthusiastic acceptance, complete with multiple exclamation marks. But again, before hitting Send she paused. Neither option seemed the right one. She ran the cursor back to the beginning once more, and them typed out a more modulated response.
“JUST GOT UP. NEED TO JUMP IN THE SHOWER. MEET ME OUTSIDE IN 30?”
Izzie bit her lip, reading over it four times before committing. Then she hit Send, and started counting seconds.
Almost immediately the message status went from Delivered to Read, and a balloon appeared with a pulsing ellipsis showing that the person on the other end was composing a response. It winked on and off for a moment before a reply came through.
“SURE”
No punctuation or pleasantry, no comment or clarification, just the one word by itself, stark and alone.
Izzie stared at the screen for a moment. Was Daphne mad at her? Had Izzie’s reply given some offense?
Now Izzie was getting offended. She sat up in the bed and slammed the phone down on the side table. What was her problem, anyway? “Sure”?
She glanced at the screen again. Izzie had replied with a question, and Daphne had replied with “sure.” Daphne was agreeing. There was no tone to the text, and Izzie’s first response had been to take offense.
“Would it have killed her to put an exclamation mark?” she muttered as she hauled herself up out of the bed and headed for the shower. It was a good thing she had a rule about not getting involved on the job. She was already a little too invested in this one as it was.
By the time she had showered, dressed, done her personal sign of the cross and taken the elevator down to the street level, Izzie was starting to feel anxious again. She cursed herself inwardly as she walked across the hotel lobby, for fretting like a middle schooler on a first date. She was a grown woman meeting a work colleague for morning coffee. What was the big deal? Besides, she had much bigger concerns to occupy her attention.
But when she saw Daphne on the sidewalk out front of the hotel, she felt a warmth blossom inside, and a broad smile crept across her face.
“Hey, Izzie!” Daphne beamed a smile back at her. She was wearing leggings, a hoodie, and running shoes, and had clearly been out for a morning jog, her hair pulled
back in a ponytail and the slightest sheen of sweat on her brow. “I was worried you weren’t going to make it.” She stopped, looking a little sheepish. “I mean, obviously you were already here, it’s your hotel after all. I just meant, that you weren’t going to be able to make it down … to join me for coffee.” She shook her head, rolling her eyes at herself. “I’m glad to see you, is what I’m saying.”
“It’s nice to see you, too,” Izzie answered with a grin.
“So?” Daphne clapped her hands together. “Coffee?”
“Sure,” Izzie said, without irony. “I can use the boost. Slept like a mummy for twelve hours, but I don’t feel very rested.”
“You have anywhere in particular in mind?” Daphne tilted her head a little to one side, quizzically.
“Well, I had a decent cup at a place called Holy Grounds yesterday, but I think that it’s pretty far away to walk.”
“Their coffee is okay,” Daphne said, her tone suggesting that she was being generous, “but the best in this part of town is probably at Monkeyhaus.” She paused, considering. “Do you like cappuccino?”
Izzie nodded, enthusiastically.
“Then Monkeyhaus is the right answer, for sure.” She turned and nodded up the street. “It’s just a couple of blocks up and over. A little far, but trust me, it’s totally worth it.”
“Lead on,” Izzie said, falling in step with her as they walked up the sidewalk. “I put myself in your hands.”
Daphne walked with her hands in the pockets of her hoodie, her elbows tucked in tight, and though Izzie walked a comfortable distance from her side, every so often they were forced to step to one side to let pedestrians walking the other way pass by, or an occasional cyclist who’d hopped on the sidewalk to avoid some snarl in traffic. And when they did, their shoulders would often bump or brush together, and Izzie would suddenly be overly conscious of Daphne’s closeness to her.
“So are you having any luck with the investigation?” Daphne asked as they turned off Hauser onto Mayfair. “Did those suspects in the drug case turn out to be Parasol employees, after all?”
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