The Nightmare Maker

by Gregory Pettit

  I thought about what the Anarchist had said. He’d been ranting, but he’d been very clear that he’d done something truly horrible to make his attack successful. Yet, in a sign of the sterling quality of my life recently, a few old folks nailed to doors didn’t sound like it would qualify as remarkably horrible—at least not for a man with a tentacle arm, slug legs, and no cock.

  “I don’t know if that is it, Jack. Can you have your guys keep looking?”

  “Well, sure, this is all billing to the Mammonites anyhow,” Jack said. There was a short pause, and then he spoke again, “Jules, what is the message for Dennis?”

  “I’m sorry, Jack—I’ll tell you in person once we’re safely in the building,” I replied, slightly confused by the question. He agreed and said he’d meet me outside of the bank in twenty minutes.

  Smoke was rising in the distance; the radio announced that anti-globalization riots had shut the Westway, and I felt a lump of worry build in my stomach. However, the driver whipped the car through a detour to the Uxbridge Road and exited at Holland Park, so I arrived without any further incident and managed to beat Jack to our destination. Rain was pissing down in typical London fall weather, so I waited in the car and checked the news on my phone. The incident at Ham House was on the BBC homepage—my respect for the Redderton Agency decreased as I considered that they had needed twenty minutes to give me that update. Then I got the spiders-up-my-spine treatment for the second time in a couple of hours. The famous Redderton Agency would never take that long to come up with publicly available information…where was Jack?

  I slowly reached for the door handle and casually pulled on it. Locked. Shit. I was in trouble. Again.

  “Mr. Redderton will be here any moment. Please let me out,” I requested in an even tone that didn’t betray my rocketing blood pressure or the headache that had returned with a vengeance.

  “Oh, Mr. Adler. You wanted to meet me here anyhow.” The privacy glass separating the passenger compartment from the front seat rolled down, and Mia met my scowl with a dazzlingly white smile, her pert nose crinkling as she added a saucy wink. “You’ve even got me all alone. Why don’t you just tell me what your message for Dennis is, and then I’ll let you out so that you can deliver it to him? Then we’ll release dear Jack. Did that bump on the head make you forget that he threw himself in front of a bullet for you? Luckily he had on a bulletproof vest,” she finished, puckering her lips in a seductive pout. The truth was, when Jack called, I had assumed that he’d been let go or freed by the cops. I hadn’t considered that the Sons of Perseus might still be holding him. Also—concussion.

  My fingers dug into the upholstery, but I managed to keep my voice from quavering as I asked: “Why do you care, Mia? I’ve told you that I believe I know the identity of the Anarchist. That was our deal. Why does it matter what message I give to Dennis?”

  Her face was still all pouty lips and smoky eyes, but the jut of her chin and the set of her shoulders dipped ever so slightly. “I’m…not sure.” She glanced away. “The request to secure the message came from the Grand Master’s office,” she finished without facing me.

  “Did the request come directly from that office, or did it go through someone else first?” I inquired, leaning forward.

  “From Senior Auditor Brown,” she mumbled. I leaned forward to hear her better, and her perfume filled my nostrils with a sweet, subtle musk. My hands eased their grip on the seat.

  Suddenly, long, thin fingers dug into the back of my neck, and she twisted her hips so that I tumbled forward, my face stopping only an inch from hers. “I don’t have time for any of your games, Mr. Adler. Father O’Hanrahan has disappeared, bankers are continuing to die, and, if you haven’t noticed, London is on the verge of tearing itself apart.” Her breath was hot and sweet; her lips nearly touched mine as she stared, unblinking, into my eyes. I was suddenly very aware of how long, subjectively, my wife had been missing – and how much I still loved her.

  “What if I have noticed?” I asked, lips parted and eyelids hooded.

  “Huh?” She blinked and pulled back.

  “Well, would London still be tearing itself apart if I had noticed?” I said, smirking as I made the kind of grammar-based joke that had always made me the life of the party.

  She slapped me—but not before I could lean forward and hit the button to unlock the car door. The little man drilling inside of my head managed to strike a water main, because blood started running out of both nostrils, but I was out of the car and onto the sidewalk before Mia could even unbuckle her seat belt.

  I grabbed a tissue from my pocket. “If your people have as much info on me as you say they do, then you’ll know my word is good. Come into the bank with me, and I’ll give you the identity of the killer,” I said, tilting my head back to stop the bleeding.

  Mia grabbed her mobile and made a move to dial someone—then she shook her head, stuffed the phone into her Prada handbag, and got out of the car. A black-suited, two-meter-tall, Aryan poster boy met us, wordlessly, outside the imposing metal doors to the Bank of England. Mia set her shoulders and strode in like she owned the place. I limped in, trying to keep my shirt clean. We were led through the same route I’d taken during my visit with Jack: up the same brass elevator, down the same plush hallway, and up to the same blandly smiling blond secretary. However, instead of being waved into the opulent, religious-symbol-covered room, we were guided to a plain door open on my right.

  “Please take a seat in the waiting room. Dennis is finishing up his previous appointment and will be with you shortly,” the secretary said and motioned to the open door. Mia and I both nodded and went into the room; the guard handed me an embroidered silk handkerchief that probably would have paid my rent for a month.

  “So, Mia—is the offer for me to join the Sons on this little adventure still open? I might want to meet Senior Auditor Brown in person to talk through it again sometime soon. Today even,” I asked, as casually as I could with my head tipped back.

  Mia whipped a small, mother-of-pearl-backed compact out of her pocket and touched up her makeup. “The Senior Auditor is out of the city on business, but I’m sure he’d be happy to take your call immediately,” she said, after making me wait thirty seconds.

  “I’m actually very interested in seeing him in person now, Ms. Noel. I’ll tell you why as soon as I finish with Dennis. I owe him the information first,” I said, staring straight ahead. “And then he’ll owe me the favor that I’m going to need to get Dana back.”

  Mia glanced at me from the corner of her eye and went back to putting on lipstick. Her visage had almost been restored to perfection when the door cracked open and the secretary stuck her head in and nodded, pointing at both of us. I didn’t have time to be surprised at Mia’s inclusion because my eyes widened as I spotted a Caucasian man with a medium build and slightly floppy brown hair exiting through the ornate door to the main chamber. He glanced toward us, and a flicker of interest, a hint of a smile even, spread across his blandly handsome face as he spotted Mia, but he kept moving down the hallway. The Prime Minister is, of course, a busy man.

  “Was that David Cam—” I blurted out before the blonde at the door pressed her lips together ever so slightly, signaling in an inimitably understated British style that it would be in poor taste to finish my sentence.

  We were ushered into the room. It had impressed me the first time I’d visited, and I gaped to see that they were actually using the marble, classical-bust-covered fireplace. Logs crackled, and the firelight carved deep shadows into Dennis’s lined, beak-nosed face as he sat gazing into the flames. Mia stared impassively ahead without betraying any sign of being impressed at her surroundings. She took a seat opposite Dennis, crossed her black-tight-covered-legs, and leaned back insouciantly. I limped over and plopped down, like a ladle of oatmeal, in a hard-backed chair positioned to the side.

  Dennis arched an eyebrow at Mia. She opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “I know who is killing y
our people, and”—I swept an arm toward Mia—“she knows where to find him, it, whatever,” I spit out in a rush. Dennis’s other eyebrow went up, and Mia’s head twitched ever so slightly in my direction; I had them.

  “And you said…that you had a message for me?” Dennis asked. He didn’t move a muscle, but his cultured words cut over the crackling of the fire just a bit faster than usual, and his piercing blue eyes locked on to me like those of a hawk spotting a mouse.

  I took a deep breath and forced myself to sit back. It looked like the banker was more interested in Miranda’s message from beyond the grave than in catching her killer. His priorities implied that he was on the verge of some fundamental decision, and the dead priestess’s information might tip the balance. I wasn’t sure why, but the little voice in the back of my head that had bailed me out of countless negotiations was screaming at me to hold back. “In the interests of ensuring that all relevant information receives the appropriate attention, I’ll explain the evidence pointing to the killer, and then I’ll get to Miranda’s message,” I said, smiling and nodding at the others.

  The terrible old man seated to my right frowned minutely; the corners of his mouth did not even droop, but the lines on his face deepened. He blinked slowly and waved his hand for me to explain. “Last night I attempted, using a focus object, to create a thaumaturgical link to contact Senior Auditor Brown. I was informed by Father Michael O’Hanrahan, formerly of the Sons of Perseus”—I glanced sidelong at Mia—“that he had information that would lead me to my missing wife. However, much to my surprise, when I went to sleep, I appeared in the Dreamscape with Miranda. You know the outcome of that—”

  “I’m…disappointed to say that I do, Mr. Adler.” Dennis’s voice was husky as he interjected, and I wondered exactly what his relationship with Miranda had been.

  “Showing up in her dream was odd, but I thought that perhaps I had been sloppy with my preparations and created a link to Miranda inadvertently. But when I woke up, I discovered that both Miranda’s and Senior Auditor Brown’s focus objects had been consumed by my…magic.” It felt weird to say that out loud, I thought, smiling at my big reveal. “Since the only two people in the Dreamscape were Miranda and her killer, QED…” I trailed off, pursing my lips and making a so-on-and-so-forth gesture with my hand. “Senior Auditor John Brown is the Anarchist!” I finished triumphantly.

  Mia surged to her feet. “Senior Auditor Brown has spent his entire life opposing the misuse of extradimensional energies!” she shouted, her eyes narrowed and lips curled. The words hung in the air momentarily as she took a deep breath. “If that is the message you intended to give to me, Mr. Adler, then consider it delivered, but don’t expect my organization to provide any reward for that kind of tripe,” she finished in a calmer tone.

  “Sit,” Dennis said, and Mia brushed down her skirts and retook her seat. I proceeded to give a brief explanation of the previous night’s unfortunate exploits.

  “…and she said that it was vital that I told you to invoke Plan C, and that the cuffs need to be opened. Does that make any sense to you?” I finished after ten minutes, and took a sip of red wine, a glass of which had been discreetly brought in a few minutes earlier.

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Adler, that it makes perfect sense,” Dennis said, his voice steady but hands trembling slightly as he gripped a crystal wine goblet.

  “But what’s the problem? If I’ve identified the killer, surely, with your resources, you can…address the issue appropriately,” I asked.

  The banker gave a small shake of his head. “No, Mr. Adler. I can see that you…believe your evidence to be actionable, but I cannot take that risk. My responsibility is first and foremost to my god, then to humanity in general, and finally to the city of London in particular,” he said, his shoulders bowing inward as he spoke, as though a great weight were settling on them.

  My mind raced. I’d been sure that if I gave the Mammonite priesthood a target, then they would turn all of their considerable resources upon it, and once they had the Senior Auditor, I’d be able to use my favors to find out what he knew about Dana’s disappearance. The classical busts adorning the ceiling seemed to leer at me as I felt another thread of hope fraying.

  “But, sir,” I said, leaning forward, “if I’m right, then you just grab Brown, and this is over.”

  “And if you’re wrong, and the killer strikes again, then I may not have the strength or the time to take the action that Miranda’s message demands. And…” he trailed off and nodded toward Mia.

  I realized then that I had been ignoring the political angle. I didn’t really have any map at all for the waters in which I was sailing. The part of me that had spent years navigating office politics kicked in: “If you don’t feel that my information is actionable, I’m happy to keep digging, and I’ll do a better job of it if Jack Redderton is released,” I said, settling back in my seat.

  Dennis braced his hands on the arms of his chair and heaved himself, terribly slowly, to his feet. He turned toward Mia and nodded. “Of course, Mr. Adler. Your…efforts have not been entirely in vain, so I’m happy for you to continue investigating this on our behalf,” he said, sounding defeated, resigned. “And I’d be very obliged if you could continue working with Mr. Redderton,” he finished, nodding at Mia.

  She rose lithely, looking better in the flickering firelight than anyone described as a Son of Perseus had any right to. “I can’t imagine why Jack hasn’t arrived yet. I’m sure he’ll show up any time now,” she said, and strode out of the room without looking back.

  “I’ll ensure a reasonable stipend is deposited in your account,” Dennis said, and turned toward the heavy wooden double doors, his dismissal unmistakable.

  Chapter 25 1500–2100, Sunday, October 4, 2015

  I’d made it back from the meeting without further incident and had relieved Becky on Olivia duty, so when the doorbell rang, I was chasing after a squealing three-year-old dressed in a princess outfit and fairy wings. To be clear, it was the three-year-old dressed in the princess outfit and fairy wings. I was Batman.

  “Jesus, Jack, I’m sorry about not coming after you. Just, with everything going on, I assumed they’d left you alone.”

  Jack waved a meaty hand, dismissing my apology, and not blinking at my outfit. I felt a weight lift off of my shoulders. The P.I. was sporting a black eye, a split lip, and was wearing the same hideous blue tuxedo that I’d seen him in at the cathedral.

  “I’m starvin’. You got anything ta eat?” he asked. I nodded and gestured to the kitchen. The towering private investigator’s feet scraped on the floor as he shuffled behind me into the kitchen. I offered him a beer, and I fixed myself a rum and Coke. After the disappointment of seeing my hopes stomped on by Dennis, I needed a drink, and I was relieved that I’d managed to get Jack out of the hands of the Sons of Perseus.

  “Have you checked your bank account recently?” he said after draining the whole bottle in a single gulp and letting out an appreciative sigh of pleasure.

  I nodded in response and popped some cold pizza into the microwave—it was the least I could do for a man who’d taken a bullet for me. The Mammonite high priest hadn’t scrimped when he mentioned a “small stipend”; an extra £50,000 had appeared within an hour of our meeting. “I get the feeling that our services aren’t actually needed anymore,” I sighed, pulling off the mask and cape. I handed Ollie my phone so that she could watch YouTube egg videos while we talked.

  “Jules, don’t you realize that it isn’t just congenital good looks and impeccable sartorial sense that led to the Redderton Agency being involved with your first escapade and this little bit of madness?” Jack asked, his East End accent thicker than usual. His skin sagged, and for the first time since I’d met him, he looked every minute of his forty-plus years. Even the rose in his lapel was drooping.

  I thought about the information on the Redderton Agency that Toscan had dug up for me, and I winced mentally—I had no clue whether my friend was ali
ve or dead. One more damned thing for my to-do list. “Yup,” I replied.

  Jack leaned back, crossed one knee over the other, and cracked his knuckles. “Well, I’m a man of my word. I promised you that if you helped out with my little ‘dying bankers’ problem, I would help you with your little ‘missing wife’ problem. I don’t have all the answers, but I can give you some of them,” he said, the deeply carved creases at the corners of his mouth making him look even more like a bulldog than usual.

  Over the next half hour, Jack filled in a lot of missing details and ate a lot of pizza. He explained that Redderton Agency had been working with the various occult factions, the Sons and Mammonites being but two of many, within London in particular and Western Europe in general, for the past two hundred years. He spoke with pride, and some of the lines on his face seemed to smooth as he regaled me with exploits that would have made the most hardened Special Forces soldier doff his cap in respect. I would have been afraid to attempt the same things in the Dreamscape.

  When he was two or three minutes into a story involving cultists, Highland Cemetery, and wallabies, I interjected, “Jack, I’m certainly impressed by everything that you’ve told me about your family’s business, but I’m not sure I understand how any of this information relates to my problems.”

  “Uh,” he grunted. “Yeah—I was trying to work up to that. Well—here goes. The reason that Redderton is the go-to agency for all of these various weirdos is because…we’re the real weirdos.” I raised an eyebrow, and Jack continued: “Well, you see—like you—we Reddertons are all attuned to…dimensions other than the three that most of humanity is familiar with. My sister, Cynthia, thinks it’s all tied up with string theory and advance physics and crap, but I don’t know about that.”