“One of those walls must be a door,” Andy said.
I pushed gently on the front wall, and it gave way. Slowly, I pushed it open far enough to poke my head through. “Is this the kitchen?”
“Cabinets, dishwasher, island stove, cooking utensils, Rachel Ray cookbook… I’m gonna say yes,” Andy said.
“Okay, now that I’m in the house, what do I look for?”
“I told you this would be the hard part,” Andy said. “Time to explore.”
“You got it.”
The kitchen’s swinging double-doors opened straight into a massive formal dining room with the biggest dining room table I had ever seen. It must have been twenty feet long, and absolutely beautiful. The top was polished mahogany, and the legs were ornately carved like the fluted pillars of the Roman Colosseum.
I zigzagged around the table to the door on the far side of the enormous room and walked into an even larger living room. Plush carpeting covered the floor. A baby grand piano sat off to one side, with luxurious settees and chaise lounges scattered about the space. Cabinets with expensive glassware lined the walls. Every inch of the room was made for entertaining guests.
Beyond the living room, I found the foyer and the front door to the house, and the staircase leading to the second floor.
“So far, I haven’t seen anything that needs a key. Upstairs next?”
“I didn’t expect you to find anything on the lower floors,” Andy said. “I suspect that whatever that key opens will be in Norma’s bedroom.”
I nodded and started up the stairs. The staircase was wide and elaborate, with flowered carpeting and a wood railing. I walked softly so the steps wouldn’t creak, but they gave me the impression they were built too solidly to make any noise. At the top of the stairs was another large landing, with an enormous mirror on the wall. A long, dark hallway with three doors spread along its length was reflected in the mirror. The first two doors were closed. The third was not. Something about the third door felt more important to me, almost familiar.
I walked cautiously to the first door and gently pushed it open. Inside the room was a bed with a paisley comforter, a music box on a tall dresser, and a makeup vanity. I moved on. I opened the second door and saw that the room was filled with shelves and shelves of books. A library. At the end of the hall, in the darkest part, the third door waited.
The first thing I noticed when I reached it was the smell. It was like mildew and rotting chicken and unwashed feet. Had to be Norman LaReau’s room. I held my breath and entered.
The bed was covered with a Dragon Ball Z bedspread. Sesame Street posters hung from the walls. The carpet was a mishmash of Disney cartoons. In the corner of the room was a small table with a half-completed Lego rocket ship. Norman’s childlike act when I fought him in Sinclair Park was apparently not an act. I paused in front of his closet, opened it, and caught my breath. And not just from the stench that flowed out. “Do you see what I see?”
“The man was disgusting,” Andy said.
Norman’s closet was filled with masks—a purple dinosaur, a happy-faced clown, Goku, and the mask I had caught him wearing in the park—Elmo. The costumes he used to lure children.
“These things smell just like him. How he ever got kids to follow him is beyond me.”
“Go to the library,” Andy said. “I don’t think your key has anything to do with Norman.”
It was easier to breathe once I got away from the Norman-stench. I slipped down the hall and back through the door to the library. It didn’t smell at all like Norman’s room—in fact, it smelled like lilacs. “Mrs. LaReau must not have liked her son’s hygiene habits. The library smells like a flower garden.”
“Classy lady,” Andy said. “For a slimy, underhanded child slaver.”
The library was wall-to-wall books. There was an entire section dedicated to the classics. Another set of shelves was filled with pop fiction, and yet another with twenty-first century authors. Beyond that, in the corner, sat a bright red shelf all alone. It contained children’s books—Sesame Street, the Berenstain Bears, Uncle Wiggly. That section made me cringe.
I looked closer. The shelves were immaculately clean and polished, but the finish was worn off in one place. I remembered the secret opening in the coal cellar and pushed on the worn shelf. Nothing happened. Then I gripped it with both hands and pulled. A section of the wall slid open to reveal a narrow room the size of a closet.
“Imagine that,” I said. “The kiddie section is a secret passage. This must be where Norman hid from Mommy.” I noticed something on the wall in front of me. A peephole. “On second thought, I think this is where Norman spied on Mommy.”
I got closer and peeked through. The peephole gave me a full view of the makeup vanity in Mrs. LaReau’s bedroom, but everything was distorted, like looking through a magnifying glass. Rouge smudged the makeup mirror, and a bottle of red nail polish sat open on the vanity top. “It’s like she left in a hurry the night she was murdered. What’s in the drawer? Hey, it has a keyhole. I wonder—”
“Too obvious,” Andy said. “But try it anyway.”
I closed up the little spying room tight and went back to door number one—Mrs. LaReau’s room. Unlike Norman’s, the carpeting in her bedroom was rich and elegant, a striped zebra pattern. The vanity sat directly across from a wall-mounted brass lamp. The peephole was built into the lamp. When I reached the vanity, I pulled the little gold key from my belt.
“Not gonna work,” I said.
The keyhole in the center drawer was shaped like it would take a skeleton key, but was much too large. The tiny gold key would get lost inside. Without thinking, I reached for the drawer and tried it. Unlocked. I slid the drawer open and examined the contents, not sure what I was looking for. Assorted makeup, eyeliners, lipsticks, curling irons, tweezers.
“Nothing here.”
I began a systematic search for anything else that might be locked. Nothing, not even under the bed. I searched the closets for secret passages, but found none. I searched every wall in the room for a secret panel but came up empty.
“No deep, dark secrets here.”
“Did we miss anything downstairs?” Andy said.
“We missed everything downstairs. You said I should look in Mrs. LaReau’s bedroom.”
“Then we should go downstairs.”
“I assume you mean the royal we, because you aren’t here.”
“The virtual me is there,” Andy said. “And he would like to go downstairs.”
“The royal me will take him, then.” I exited Mrs. LaReau’s bedroom and headed toward the stairs. My reflection in the big mirror at the end of the hall shocked me—my stark white mask against the midnight blue of my armor was eerie. Then something else caught my attention. “Hey, what do we have here?”
The mirror held the reflection of a large rolltop desk tucked away neatly in a little alcove on the landing. I had missed it when I came up the staircase because I was so focused on the three doors. I rounded the corner to the landing. The desk, like everything else in the LaReau mansion, was gorgeous. The slats of the closed rolltop must have been made from a single piece of wood, because the deep brown woodgrain came together naturally in the shape of an eye. In any other setting, that pattern would have been beautiful. In the lair of a kidnapper, it was eerie.
Three drawers were built into the lower body of the desk. The first was filled with magazines. The second and third were empty. I tried to open the rolltop, but it was locked by a steel hasp. A keyhole was built into its base. I tried the little gold key, but it didn’t fit.
“Thought saber,” Andy said.
I drew my Amplifier and formed a short, thin blade, slipped it neatly beneath the closed roll-top, and slashed the hasp. The top popped up a fraction of an inch, and I rolled it the rest of the way open. The inside was mostly writing surface and shelves. An old-fashioned inkwell sat in one corner, and the back of the desk consisted of a shelf with a row of small wooden compartments abov
e it. I studied the unusual pattern of the compartments, and knew I had seen it before. This was the image I had extracted from the key.
I slid my hand along the shelf under the compartments and felt a small protrusion beneath one. I pressed it, but nothing happened, so I felt inside the cubby above it. The ceiling of the little compartment had a tiny hole in it. I bent down to see what it was.
“Keyhole.”
“I knew it,” Andy said. “The old keyhole-in-the-letter-slot trick.”
I put the little gold key in. “It fits.” I turned the key, and something inside the desk clicked. A small door beneath the cubby popped open, and a drawer slid out.
“What’s inside?” Andy asked.
“It’s a book,” I said.
“I knew it,” Andy said. “The old book-inside-the-secret-drawer trick.”
The little book was leather-bound and tied shut with a black cotton cord. I untied the cord and read over the first page.
Andy made an impatient huff. “What does it say?”
“Well, it’s not a guide to Get Smart quotes, if that’s what you’re asking. I think it’s a diary. Looks like Mrs. LaReau had a plan to murder Nicolaitan.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Norma’s Diary
Kathryn and I followed Mrs. Simmons, Whisperer Extraordinaire, into the tiny room behind her desk at the Greensburg Library. She flipped a switch on the wall, but nothing happened.
Kathryn looked up at the ceiling. “Bulb burned out?”
Mrs. Simmons smiled and shook her head. “No, dear, that switch secures this room so no one may hear our conversation.”
Kathryn gave Mrs. Simmons a double thumbs-up. “Gotcha. Cone of Silence. I’m really catching on to this secret agent stuff. Okay, Rin, hand over the microfilm.”
I did a mental eye roll and laid the little book on the table between us. “The LaReau mansion is one creepy place.”
“The LaReau family is one creepy clan,” Kathryn said. “I mean, come on. Norma—Norman? That has Bates Motel written all over it.”
Mrs. Simmons smiled at Kathryn. “The Whisperers had no knowledge of a connection between Nicolaitan and the LaReau family. Their modi operandi were different. But the late Police Chief Munificent believed otherwise, and Rinnie has discovered that the connection is old and deep. I suspect we will learn some unsettling things from the diary of Norma LaReau.”
“I just hope we don’t learn that Norman liked knives and dressed up like his mother,” Kathryn said as she opened the diary. “Let’s see what psycho-momma has to say. Oh, this is disturbing. Listen.
“‘I know now that I have taken a most wrong path. Robbing the man of his childhood was a mistake, but allowing him to live after his return has been devastating. He murdered my Norman. Vengeance in all matters belongs to God, but in the case of my own flesh and blood, I know that He will allow it to be mine.’”
“We know that Norman LaReau died of a heart attack at the police station,” Mrs. Simmons said quietly. “Yet, his mother claims he was murdered. Handless Death, no doubt. Read on, if you please.”
Kathryn continued. “‘Ten years ago, he threatened to expose my family and ruin our reputation unless we used our connections to help him. I had to admire his flair for extortion. He was developing a mind control drug and needed test specimens. I immediately thought of Ruth Draudimon.’”
“Mason’s mom,” I said.
“Oh, this is sad,” Kathryn said. “Listen. ‘Ruth was naive and easily persuaded to meet Robert. Her husband was more interested in advancing his career than his marriage, and Ruth needed attention. She was Robert’s great experiment, and in no time at all he controlled her completely. Or so he believed. When she failed to murder her son at his command, Robert knew that the formula had limitations. He told me he needed fresh specimens, so I brought him Almira and her young boy.’” Kathryn looked up from the diary. “Who’s Robert?”
“Robert Elon,” I said. “That’s Nicolaitan’s real name.”
She squinted. “The most vicious killer in the known universe is named Robert? Bad guys should have industrial-strength names. Stone or Wolfe. Maybe Ajax. But Robert? Really?”
Mrs. Simmons patted Kathryn on the head. “Keep reading, dear.”
Kathryn nodded. “‘Almira is delusional. Her clearest recollection is from ten years ago, when Robert took her son. She believes that no time at all has passed. The poor soul was used by Robert to perfect Psychedone 10, his most powerful weapon. Almira’s mental collapse was real, but Ruth feigned hers when she noticed that Robert had lost interest in Almira. Ruth roams freely inside Camelot, but Almira lives on the farm near the Burial Grounds.’”
“This entry is only a week old. More proof that Mason’s mom is alive,” Kathryn said, squeezing my hand. “That’s good news, right?”
“Unless Mason gets himself killed trying to find her.”
“Our mission has become more difficult,” Mrs. Simmons said. “If Ruth Draudimon truly roams Nicolaitan’s hidden training grounds, finding her may well be impossible. The Psi Fighters and Whisperers have been searching for Camelot for a decade.”
Kathryn frowned and continued reading. “‘Almira hears voices. When distressed, she wails uncontrollably and her dogs become vicious and overprotective. They attack anyone near her. For years, the superstitious community has believed that she is the Blue Lady rumored to haunt Livermore. Robert lets her live because she frightens people away from the burial grounds. It is convenient for Robert’s work. Almira has confided to me that he holds his Proletariat in the caves along Ghost Trail.’”
Kathryn bit her lip. “All those kids who disappeared from school? He keeps them in a cave?”
“So it would seem.”
“I like this Nicolaitan dude less and less every minute,” Kathryn said.
It was all becoming frighteningly clear to me. “So when Almira said ‘Ruth is below,’ she meant that Mason’s mom is in Camelot. And Almira was… Is it possible?”
“I’m afraid we have drawn the same conclusion,” Mrs. Simmons said. “The Almira referred to in Mrs. LaReau’s diary can only be Almira Demiurge. You met Egon’s mother in the cemetery.”
“She was Egon’s mom?” Kathryn said. “That explains why he was such a whacko.”
Mrs. Simmons nodded. “It also explains why he believed he was Nicolaitan’s Apprentice. Nicolaitan chose him for his ego. The real Scallion was telling the truth. Egon was a diversion, which gave a second Knight room to hunt down the Morgan girl undetected.”
“I think we’re getting close to him,” Kathryn said. “Somebody is messing with the Dweeb League.”
“What do you mean, dear?” Mrs. Simmons said.
Kathryn scrunched her hair up on her head. “Doesn’t it seem convenient that the Dweeb League showed up at Doc Miliron’s house at the same time as the Knights?”
“Go on.”
“I mean, who told them to dress up in tights and battle the forces of evil?”
“You did,” I said.
Kathryn poked her lips out. “Okay, I may have done a fantastic job of whispering my message of hope to the world, and I may have told Bobby to keep them out of trouble, but I had nothing to do with the Diaper Man costume that Pickles wore.”
I giggled. “I can’t get those outfits out of my mind.”
“And,” Kathryn continued her rant, “I never mentioned the time or the location. Somebody told them to be at Doc’s house at six o’clock. I don’t like bad guys messing with my peeps. We have a shrew.”
“You mean mole,” I said.
“A rodent’s a rodent,” Kathryn said. “I need a rat trap. I hope our rodent has a more sinister name than Robert. I mean, I’m happy we know Nicolaitan’s boring real name and all, but I almost feel sorry for the guy.”
“But we aren’t any closer to knowing his true identity,” I said. “Knowing his name doesn’t help.”
“No, but this might,” Kathryn said, pointing at a page in the diary. “‘Whet
her Almira’s story about the Proletariat is real or imagined, I neither know nor care, but I am intrigued by another of her imaginings. In a rare, lucid moment, she told me she has seen the door to Camelot. I asked her where I could find it, but no matter how I pressed, she refused. She said only that the Maven knows. I do not know to whom she refers, but I will press her further. When I get that information, vengeance will be mine.’”
Mrs. Simmons tapped her fingers on the tabletop, gazing off into space for the longest time. Finally, she said, “If Almira Demiurge is correct about the captives, she may also know the location of Camelot. We have an additional objective for your mission, dear.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Proletariat
“Why Drake? Why can’t Andy come with me?” I moaned. “The Proletariat will be guarded. I’ll need a real Psi Fighter with me if we plan to rescue them.”
“I have not been satisfied by Mr. Reynolds’s explanation for why he was at the Miliron residence,” the Kilodan said, his emotionless mask staring down at me. “We have to know if we can trust him.”
“That’s easy,” I said. “We can’t. Case closed.”
“Drake is less guarded around you,” Andy said. “You can learn things we can’t.”
“Scan him,” I said. “Then you’ll know.”
“I will not intrude into the minds of my own people,” the Kilodan said. “I only scan the lawless, and then only in dire circumstances.”
“This is dire,” I said. “I mean, first off, Drake’s a jerk. That’s dire. Second, Mrs. Simmons wants me to find Almira Demiurge while I’m on this mission. How can I ask her about Camelot if Drake is a rogue Psi Fighter working for the enemy? Dire number two.”
The Kilodan gave me that totally blank stare he gets when I’m starting to get on his last nerve. “Drake’s father is an old friend. Completely trustworthy. I owe it to him to give his son the benefit of the doubt. I want you to see how Drake reacts when you rescue the Proletariat.”
Live and Let Psi Page 19