by J. R. Rain
“You look cute today,” said Mary Lou, after she’d finally emerged from her glass of wine.
“With you,” I said, “my clothes tend to get cuter and cuter as you drink more and more.”
“Fashion goggles,” she said, holding up her wine and giggling. “So, tell me what you’re working on these days.”
I told her while she sipped often from her wine glass. when I was finished she said, “An honest-to-God buried treasure?”
“Buried something,” I said.
Mary Lou motioned for the waiter to refill her glass. He did so, but didn’t smile. Not the way Fang used to, back when I hadn’t known he was Fang. Back when he had just been a bartender who had seemed to take a keen and flirtatious interest in us.
“Like a pirate treasure?”
“Except his dad wasn’t a pirate,” I said. “That’s the key here. His dad was, by all indications, a nut job.”
“A nut job who buried real gold.”
“Right.”
“Where?”
“Catalina,” I said. “According to the map.”
“Oh my God, I want your job.”
“No, you don’t. Too many bad guys.”
“You’re right, I don’t. But...how fun!”
“Maybe.”
“So, do you get a cut of the treasure?”
“Yes, plus my standard fees.”
“I want to be you for one week.”
“Even with all the blood?” I asked.
“Scratch that,” she said, shivering.
“Anyway,” I said. “His dad was nuts.”
“I think his dad was adorable.”
“Last time you drank, you said chest hair was adorable.”
“I did?”
“You did.”
“Eew.”
“Exactly.”
“Still,” said my sister, “his dad sounds like he was a lot of fun.”
“His dad sounds like he was a lot of crazy.”
“Either way, it’s good for you, right?”
She had a point. Had the world been filled with devoted husbands, honest employees, and no crime or craziness, I would be out of a job.
“Insanity is good for business,” I agreed.
She started eagerly on her second glass of wine, bringing it to her naturally full lips—lips that had always been fuller than mine, which annoyed me to no end. She took a healthy sip—and I used that word loosely—then said, “Piece of cake for you, right? Just use your magic to find the treasure...and voilà!”
“It’s not magic,” I said, lowering my voice. Mary Lou not only got more complimentary as she drank, but she also got louder, too. Louder wasn’t a good thing in my line of business—or for my kind.
“Oh, it’s magic, all right,” she said,
“Well, let’s keep talk of magic to a minimum in public, okay?”
“Whatever you say, Houdini.” She giggled some more. “And you didn’t answer my question. Finding something lost should be easy for you, right? You found those magic charms—”
“Medallions,” I said, reaching over and pulling her stool closer to me, since my dear sister seemed determined to spill my vampire beans tonight. “But I was connected to those, remember?”
She frowned, processing that. “So, it would be hard for you to find something you’re not connected to?”
“I think so, yes. But I’m still learning how I, uh, work. Besides...” Except I didn’t finish my thought. I thought I’d just seen someone who looked remarkably like Fang. He’d stepped into the bar briefly, looked around, and then stepped out. I had swung my head around just as he’d exited. But he looked like Fang, at least from behind.
Jesus...had it been him?
No, it couldn’t have been. After all, my inner alarm had remained calm. Unless, of course, Fang didn’t pose a threat. In fact, he had never triggered my inner alarm, even when he’d been stalking me.
Which meant Fang hadn’t been a threat to me.
I thought about that as I nearly got up.
Nearly ran after him—or whoever it was.
Nearly.
My heart, which usually thumped slowly in my chest cavity, had suddenly picked up its pace, beating, perhaps, as fast as a normal person’s heart.
“You okay, Sam?”
“Yes.”
“You were saying...” she prodded.
“I was saying what?”
“You said ‘except,’ and then you looked like you saw a ghost, which, for you, is saying something.”
A ghost would have been easier to deal with. Ghosts I saw every day. Someone who looked like Fang...Jesus...
I took a deep breath, willed myself to calm down.
It wasn’t him.
Couldn’t have been.
Or was it?
I looked at my sister. “Except,” I said, continuing my thought from a few minutes ago, “except I want to find the treasure without the use of my, ah, magic.”
“What do you mean?”
“The map is a puzzle,” I said. “A mystery.”
“And you want to solve it on your own.”
“I do,” I said. “It is, after all, what I do best.”
“That, and kick ass.”
“You’re a good sister,” I said.
She raised her glass of wine. “I can drink to that.”
“You can drink to anything.”
“I can drink to that, too.”
And she did.
* * *
I was studying the map again.
I was also drinking idly from a packet of pig and cow blood. I was never sure which. As I leaned over the map, with the kids sound asleep and my office door locked, I tilted back the foul-smelling stuff as I tried once again to make heads or tails from the scribbles along the college ruled paper.
That the map was old, I had no doubt. Adam Rose had told me the truth about his father, that much I knew. I hadn’t sensed any deception coming from him. Whether his dad’s treasure map was something other than laminated scribblings remained to be seen.
I itched to call Fang, to consult with him, to send him a scanned copy of the map and ask for his input. That seeking Russell Baker’s opinion never crossed my thoughts concerned me.
He’s too young, I thought, thinking of my sexy ex-client and current love interest. He’s too fresh. Too green. Not experienced.
Russell Baker was in his mid-twenties, which put him about the age I had been when I was rendered into what I am to this day. Physically, we looked the same age. But we weren’t. Seven years had passed since my attack. Seven crazy, long, nightmarish years.
I finished the packet of blood and wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. Blood streaked over my knuckles, and, like a true monster, I licked it off my skin.
Such as ghoul, I thought.
The map actually had an ‘X’ marked on it, along with a dashed line that surely indicated a path to follow. It was an old-school map, drawn by someone who’d seen far too many Errol Flynn movies.
Riddles were written neatly in the four corners of the map. Four riddles, in fact. Scrawled in bold letters across the top of the map were the words: CATALINA ISLAND.
No mistaking that.
I’d been to Catalina, which consisted of one main town of about four thousand people and very few cars. Golf carts and Segways dominated. Last I’d heard, there was a fourteen-year wait list to own a gas-powered vehicle on the island. Catalina rested some twenty-odd miles off the coast of Southern California. A nice place to visit, although pollution levels were notoriously high there. Then again, unless the water was laced with high amounts of silver chromium, I didn’t have much to worry about.
The chaotic spirit of Adam Rose’s father, Cleo Rose, had disappeared the moment his son had left my house. Truth was, I could have reached out to the spirit for help in this matter—if the spirit could form coherent enough thoughts for me to interpret.
But I didn’t want to reach out.
No, I wanted to solv
e this damn riddle on my own, old-school style. No psychic help. No telepathy. Nothing supernatural. Just me and my brain and one crazy-ass map.
I looked at it again. There were four riddles on the map, each written by hand, one in each of the four corners. I assumed solving one riddle would lead to the next. But which was first? And which was next? I decided to start with the upper left-hand riddle, as that made sense to me. Then again, what made sense to me, might be far different than what made sense to the nonsensical ramblings of a man with dementia.
I rewrote the four riddles on a pad of paper in front of me, writing them in the sequence I assumed they went.
One man by sea, chaw on me.
Ten days a week, have a peek.
Nine into eight, love or hate?
Twenty to one, run run run.
I lit a cigarette now because I could. I lit a cigarette now because the damn things wouldn’t kill me. Sure, no one liked cigarette breath—but tonight, it was just me and the map.
The trail that led to the ‘X’ had exactly twenty dashes. Twenty steps?
I didn’t know. In fact, there was no way of knowing until I arrived at Catalina Island tomorrow. Still, that didn’t stop me from poring over the map into the wee hours of morning, while somewhere out there a werewolf roamed his palatial estate, and a new vampire learned the fine art of the kill...
* * *
The ferry from Long Beach to Catalina Island took just over an hour.
I’d recently been on a ferry up in Washington State, where I’d visited the world’s creepiest island, officially. Although the menace that haunted it—and the resident family—was now long gone, I suspected it was still out there, searching for its next host.
God help anyone foolish enough to allow it in.
Anyway, I exited the ferry in the late evening with other tourists and residents. Sunburned and exhausted tourists streamed past me in the opposite direction, heading back to the mainland. Interestingly, as I exited onto the dock, my inner alarm began to ring softly.
I paused and looked around, but nothing caught my eye.
Curiouser and curiouser.
My life was different now than it had been just a few months ago. I no longer possessed the emerald medallion...that golden disk that enabled me to live comfortably enough in sunlight. No, that medallion and another just like it, had been purposefully destroyed by me. Now I sought the fourth and final medallion, the one worn by Fang, of all people.
Synchronicity, I thought, at its best.
Or worst.
I had left the kids alone at home, as they had proven to be capable of watching themselves, at least for a few hours at a time. Then again, my kids were not like other kids. My kids could take care of themselves. And, yes, my sister was on high alert should her services be needed asap.
As tourists and residents streamed past me in both directions, either heading to the ferry or to the small town of Avalon, I realized that I hadn’t a clue where to start looking.
No, that wasn’t true. I did have a clue. The first riddle.
One man by sea, chaw on me.
Sure, that didn’t sound crazy at all. I sighed and bit my lip and saw something curious directly in front of me, at the end of the landing. It was a glittering mass of electromagnetic energy collecting at the far end of the landing dock. I often saw spirits. In fact, it was a rare day when I didn’t see a spirit or two. Most ghosts didn’t fully form, often appearing only as bundles of light, at least to my eyes.
Although only partially formed, I recognized the spirit immediately as Cleo Rose. I could recognize his spiritual signature, so to speak, even though the physical details were lacking. That, and I sensed the craziness wafting off the entity. Incoherent, rambling thoughts that somehow reached me.
Lucky me.
As I drew closer, Cleo Rose took on more shape. He went from looking like a fuzzy ball of light, to something humanoid. I stopped before him as a family with kids continued on excitedly, and for a brief moment, I was alone with a man who’d died ten years ago, a man who had been crazy in life, and, apparently, just as crazy in death.
“Hi, Cleo,” I whispered.
The glowing shape briefly scattered, then reformed again, like a startled school of fish.
“Yes, I can see you.”
Cleo briefly took on more shape. I saw shoulders, a head, ears...perhaps even a robust beard. Random, incoherent thoughts reached me. Strange images flashed through my thoughts. These were his thoughts, I knew, that I was picking up on. So crazy that I shielded myself from most of them.
I said, “I’m going to find your treasure, Mr. Rose. But I don’t want your help.”
He continued regarding me silently. His crackling, sparkling, light-filled body formed and reformed, seemingly blown about on ethereal winds that I could neither see nor feel. I sensed a great sadness wafting from him. I also sensed other emotions coming from him as well: fear, regret and love being the top three.
But mostly sadness.
I wondered why.
* * *
Avalon was hopping.
Since Catalina boasted a respectable nightlife, live music issued from many of the bars and restaurants as dozens of tourists strolled the beaches and boardwalks. Catalina was a popular destination for Southern Californians.
And apparently, pretend pirates, too.
I strolled along Pebbly Beach Road and looked across the harbor toward the beautiful, polished dome of Catalina’s most famous attraction: the Casino. It sat east of the city and dominated the landscape. It was beautiful and gaudy and seemed oddly out of place. And yet, it still worked, too.
I still had an audience, of course. The spirit of Mr. Rose was following behind me, keeping his distance—but keeping his ghostly eyes on me, as well.
One man by sea, chaw on me.
A riddle, obviously. I liked riddles, which is probably why I wanted to become an investigator in the first place. As I stood there at the beginning of town, as the smell of cooking fish and suntan oil wafted over me, it occurred to me that Catalina Island was surrounded by the Pacific Ocean. Not a sea. A clue? I didn’t know. Loud laughter erupted from a restaurant nearby. I ignored the laughter. What if the crazy old goat had purposely misspelled ‘sea’?
I continued standing there in town, suspecting—and perhaps this was an inadvertent psychic hit—that this is where I should be starting this treasure hunt. I studied the landscape...searching, searching. I searched signs and landmarks for a man by the sea.
Nothing.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should give the poor guy his retainer back. Or maybe I should just reach out with my various heightened extrasensory abilities.
Maybe...or maybe not.
I strolled through downtown casually, just another tourist here to see the sights...and to find one crazy man’s treasure. Tammy would have loved it here. Same with Anthony. Of course, right about now, both would have had me regretting bringing them. Still, it was hard not to stroll through such a charming place and not think of them.
I need to show them more of the world, I vowed to myself. I’m a bad mom.
No, I’m a busy mom. A single mom.
I continued turning the first riddle over and over in my mind. As I did so, I strolled past a directory of the island. I noted many island features and landmarks and roads, but the thing that stood out the most was the name of one particular street. In fact, the moment I saw it, I knew I had figured out the first clue.
The key with any riddle was to solve part of it, any part. Once done, the pattern for the rest of the riddle might emerge.
Might being the operative word here.
I had done a little research on the island today. Okay, my research consisted of reading the Wikipedia page of Catalina Island on the ferry ride out. Anyway, I had learned one or two things I hadn’t previously known about the island. One was that Wrigley had owned most of it in the 1920s. Yes, the chewing gum people. One long street had been named after them, Wrigley Road.
One man by sea, chaw on me.
Chaw was, of course, a variant of chew. In fact, as I stood there, I did a quick search of the word on my iPhone to be sure. Yup, there it was: Chaw...something chewed, not meant to be swallowed.
Something like...gum?
One man by sea...
How about: One man buy C...
“C” as in Catalina. Or...
One man buy Catalina, chew on me.
I headed immediately for Wrigley Road.
* * *
No, I didn’t know what I was doing, but at least I knew where to start. And since Wrigley Road covered many miles along the north side of the island, I figured I would do what any good investigator would do: start at the beginning.
I wasn’t winded or anywhere near to being tired as I headed up the winding road through town, passing many charming homes and condos and various properties designed strategically to catch a glimpse of glittering blue water.
Twenty minutes later, I stood at the crossroads of Wrigley Road and Clemente Avenue. As I stood where one residential street led into another, I considered the second riddle:
Ten days a week, have a peek.
As I stood there, perplexed, I felt stronger than ever. It was early evening and I was alive. I was tempted to count off ten homes down Wrigley Road, but that seemed too easy. Of course, the very person—or entity—who had concocted this riddle was presently watching behind me a few houses down. I could march over to him and ask what the hell he meant. I could have—but I didn’t.
Ten days a week would be, what, one and a half weeks?
What if I started on Sunday and counted ten days from there? That would be, what, Tuesday of the following week? Then again, if I started on a Monday, that would be a Wednesday. Except most calendars start with Sunday.
Have a peek...at a calendar?
Tuesday, I thought. It’s definitely Tuesday.
I scanned Wrigley Street some more, wondering if I’d gone down the wrong road, literally. I scanned homes and golf carts and a smattering of cars. Above a golf cart closest to me was a street sign. I stepped over and read it. Or...had a peek.