by Jeff Deck
Is this belligerent person the home aide? I’d expected—a somewhat different personality. “We’re not lawyers, reporters, or pirates either,” I say gently. “We’re all concerned friends of Officer Milly Fragonard, who seems to have gone missing. We were wondering if we might talk to Mr. Shaughnessy about that.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“I said no,” she says. “I won’t allow it.”
“Because he’s got dementia?” I say. “Or because he has something to hide?”
“Oh boy, Divya,” Sol breathes.
Then a jolly old voice rings out from the doorway of the mansion. “Oh, please, Ilana, you’re far too protective!”
An ancient man totters out onto the vast porch. He’s wearing a bathrobe. “This is not the way we treat honored guests,” he calls to his aide. “Please, bring them here.”
Ilana gives us a doubtful look. “Come on,” she mutters, and she escorts us to the front of the house.
Shaughnessy’s house looks more like a Southern mansion than a Portsmouth Brahmin’s stronghold. White columns, sweeping verandas, flanked by weeping willows (much like the ones in Grieg’s wallpaper, I’m startled to realize). But the house is dark and brooding, sitting somehow apart from the bright June day. Maybe it’s the shade from the island’s small cluster of trees.
“Reminds me of one of my great-uncle’s stories,” Sol remarks. “Rich guy gathers a cult in his old mansion, and … well, never mind, that’s when it gets horribly racist.”
“Francine, thank you so much for coming,” says the old man, clasping my hand warmly. “It’s been so long. Won’t you introduce me to your friends?”
Sol, Ulrich, and I look at each other. Sol raises his eyebrows.
“Ooh, uh,” I say, “I think you’ve got me mistaken for someone else. I’m Divya, and these are my friends Solomon and Ben. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I offer my hand.
“I’m certain you’re Francine,” says the old man.
Now that I’m closer to him, I smell camphor masking a damper, rotten odor. His eyes fixate on me: they’re watery, blue, and alert. He extends a claw-like hand to meet mine, and I force myself to firmly grasp the papery skin.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Shaughnessy,” I say.
“Yes, nice-to-meetcha,” says Ulrich in a rush. Neither he nor Sol extend a hand.
Shaughnessy appears not to notice. He’s already shuffling back to the house and gesturing for us to follow.
“Hey,” says Sol, “you mind if I take a quick stroll around the island before I join you guys?”
Ilana looks daggers at him. “I mind. You’re not welcome to wander around Mr. Shaughnessy’s property on your own.”
Inside, the foyer is marble, cracked in many places, but it must have once been grand. The furniture and furnishings have that same neglected air of glory gone by. Shaughnessy flaps a hand at his surroundings. “This is where they’d select their whores and negotiate a price,” he says. “Exquisite selection, far better than any Marcy Street cathouse.”
Before I can puzzle that one out, Sol clutches my elbow. “There’s something here,” he whispers.
“Can you restrain him for at least a few minutes?” says Ulrich, looking annoyed.
I wave him off and murmur to Sol, “Maybe we can take a tour. Hold on.”
He glances down at his wrist. It doesn’t look any different to me—no vibrations or flashing lights that I can see. The device must give off an internal signal. Assuming it’s giving any signal at all, that is. “Not for long,” he mutters. “It itches.”
I turn back to Scott Shaughnessy. “Francine” is going to figure out who’s bullshitting here and who’s not.
“I can show you a pistol we found during the renovation,” he says. “Belonged to the madam herself!”
“I used to be a Portsmouth police officer,” I say, trying to regain control of the conversation. “I worked with Milly Fragonard. I understand you’ve become good friends with her?”
Scott Shaughnessy grins. “Oh yes, the greatest of friends. For a woman of her height, she has the most delightful ass. That is the crux of our friendship.”
“Her ass?” Sol says, confused.
I won’t take the bait. I’m increasingly convinced that Shaughnessy is messing with us. “Can you tell us where Milly is right now, sir?”
“Gone,” the old man says. His bathrobe drifts open and we’re treated to the unwelcome sight of his bare, sunken chest and a withered, greyish member of startling length dangling between his legs. “Gone, gone, gone. To a plane.”
“Oh, God, what a waste of time,” Ulrich groans. He turns away. Sol pointedly stares down at his wrist, analyzing whatever biofeedback he may or may not be getting.
“A plane?” I say. “She flew somewhere? Where?”
He laughs.
I step toward him, fighting down my revulsion. If I never have to see another old man’s dong for the rest of my life, I’ll be a happy woman. “Where did Milly fly to, Mr. Shaughnessy?”
“Easy,” Sol says. From the queasy look on his face, it’s clear that he is buying Shaughnessy’s dementia act. And Ulrich is nodding along with him: the two of them finally agree on something.
“Not that kind of plane,” Scott Shaughnessy now replies. His smile is clearly mocking. Or at least it’s clear to me.
My anger, old friend that it is, has been hiding out but not gone, off on a camping trip in the wilds of my subconscious. Now it packs up its tent and comes roaring back. “What kind of plane, then?”
The elderly millionaire flinches away from me. Ilana steps forward, warning flashing in her eyes.
“Divya!” Ulrich says. He grabs my arm. “Give the old fart a break. It’s clear he’s got … issues.”
“No,” I say, “he doesn’t. He played Milly somehow, and now he’s playing us.” I glance at Sol on my other side and snap, “Will both of you step off?”
Sol’s expression twists in discomfort. “I’m not saying I know what dementia looks like,” he murmurs to me. “But wouldn’t you feel really fucking bad if you’re harassing a crazy old man? One who’s already been taken advantage of by a cop?”
“Milly would never take advantage,” Ulrich puts in, now looking pissed off at just about everyone.
“Are you finished?” Ilana butts in.
I grit my teeth. I can play nice if I work at it. What was that old trick Kathryn was always talking about?
During a conversation, everything you say either fills the other person’s bucket—or dips from their bucket. Which do you think is more effective?
I’ll be the best bucket-filler anyone’s ever met, if I need to. I can fill Sol’s bucket and Ulrich’s bucket and Ilana’s bucket and Shaughnessy’s bucket and get the information I need—all at the same time. I nod, and I say, “I’m sorry, Mr. Shaughnessy, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m very concerned about my friend. Please, can you tell us anything more about where she’s gone?”
He whimpers and says, in a quavery voice, “Francine? Please don’t be mad at me.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Ilana says. “Mr. Shaughnessy needs his rest. You—”
“Please, just another minute,” I say. “I really appreciate your advocacy for Mr. Shaughnessy. Another minute and we’ll let him be.”
She wavers. “You still think he’s playing you?”
I do—or part of me does. But the other part sees a scared, confused elderly man and feels like a scumbag.
“What can I do for you, Francine?” Shaughnessy rattles. “We go way back. Please tell me what I can do.”
Sol shoots me a desperate, silent question. I say, “Mr. Shaughnessy, would it be all right if we take a quick look around before we go?”
The old man beams. “For you, Francine, anything.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say.
As I stride past him, I jump. Someone has just patted my ass. I snap my head back around and see Shaughnessy looking at his own hand a
s if it’s betrayed him.
Buckets. Buckets.
Fuckits. This fucker just—
“Buckets,” I grit out. We’re out of the old man’s earshot now. Sol is arguing with the home aide, trying to dissuade her from accompanying us on the “tour.” I wriggle away from Ulrich.
“Sure, Allard, you got it,” says Ulrich. “We’re gonna be knee deep in buckets of shit if anyone finds out about this. The guy’s clearly lost it. Now let’s get this tour done with.”
Sol hurries over, the home aide close behind him. “Sorry, folks, she insists on coming with us,” he says in a low voice. And then, in a more public tone: “Divya, you were saying you wanted to look upstairs, isn’t that right?”
That’s the direction his Port-senses must be tingling in. “Sure,” I say.
Ulrich shoulders in front of us, leading the way up the stairs.
“You’ve got five minutes, ‘Francine,’” says Ilana, throwing a hostile look at me.
Sol smiles at both of us. “We won’t even need that. Follow my, uh, instincts and I’ll get us where we need to go.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the home aide says.
“Don’t worry about it, Ilana,” I say. I can fill her bucket yet, can’t I? “We’re all a little out of our heads with concern about our friend. You don’t happen to remember the last time Officer Fragonard visited the island, do you?”
Upstairs, the house is hot and stuffy, all the windows closed against the fresh early summer air. The home aide looks at me suspiciously, but with a softening of her gaze. She picks at her headwrap.
“No, I don’t,” she says finally. “We haven’t seen her here in a few days, Ms. Allard. I can’t say I’m disappointed—I find her interest in Mr. Shaughnessy to be inappropriate—but for your sake, I hope she’s all right.”
“Me too,” I say. I look her in the eye. “Could we be honest with each other for a second, Ilana? It would mean a lot to me.”
She waits for elaboration, and when I offer none, the home aide says, “Okay.”
“Does Scott Shaughnessy really have dementia?”
Ilana nods. “He suffers from dementia. Beyond question.”
“Thank you,” I say. Ulrich watches me with barely suppressed irritation.
That’s when Sol says, “Come on, everyone. I have a strong feeling we should go one more floor up.”
I expect Ilana to raise an objection, but she shrugs. The four of us take the considerably shabbier second staircase to the narrower third floor. Here there are a couple more bedrooms, though plainer and smaller than the ones a floor below. The fancy trim around the doorways and windows is replaced by a simple, plain surface.
Sol’s face twists in concentration. “Hold on. I’ve gotta locate the vibe…”
Ulrich shoots a cross look at me. “So—you brought a, like, medium along? A psychic? Is that what this is about, Allard?”
Better that than anyone looking too closely at Sol’s wrist. “You came to the Queen of Weird,” I say. “What else did you expect?”
“This way,” Sol says with sudden confidence. He marches toward a door at the end of the hall. It’s the only closed door I can see, so I assume that it’s either a closet or it goes to the attic.
He rattles the knob and finds it locked. Then he immediately turns to the home aide. I see no trace of my friend’s normal awkwardness as he commands her, “Open it.”
“The attic?” Ilana says. “Why?”
“Open it,” Sol says urgently. In his eyes I see not just confidence but desire. No, stronger than that: greed.
That look scares me. But we’ve come too far already to give up. I swallow and say, “Sol, let’s try asking the nice lady… more nicely.”
The home aide scratches at her chin. “No, it’s all right. Whatever gets you all out of the house. You want to look at a bunch of dusty junk, be my guest.”
She produces a keyring from her pocket and fits a long, black specimen into the lock. The door swings open, and Ilana gestures for us all to go first.
I don’t have a handy-dandy wrist implant myself, but all the same I feel my own internal vibration. Something is wrong here. I open my mouth to warn my companions, but Ulrich and Sol are already trudging up the stairs.
I crowd behind them on the worn steps. The attic is unfinished, a network of rough beams and lattices hanging over crude floorboards. As Ilana promised, a ton of junk calls the attic home: boxes, old broken furniture, papered-over pictures in frames.
I utter a panicked curse and reach for a weapon that isn’t there.
In one section of the sloping attic ceiling, there is a hole to another place. An open Port. Unlike the Port that I witnessed in the Sheafe Warehouse in Prescott Park, this one isn’t surrounded by false fire: instead, a garland of phantom flowers frames it, five-petaled flowers that are not really there. They slowly and open and close as they rotate around the Port.
The floorboards beneath the Port are stained dark in a wide radius. Lying in this dried puddle, to the side of the Port, is a bound and gagged person. Not Milly, I see right away: someone a lot smaller, and male.
“What is that?” Ulrich says in a choked voice, ignoring the hostage. He staggers toward the Port.
“Ben, draw your gun!” I shriek. I’m too late. Ilana already has her own weapon pointed at us, a revolver that looks antique. Beneath her headwrap, her eyes have gone almost black with triumph.
I’ve been through a lot of dark places in the past year or so. I’ve given in to a lot of terrible impulses. But I’d like to think that I’ve grown and changed as a result. I’m not a cop anymore; I don’t have to automatically assume the worst about everyone I meet. I’d like to think that I’ve come out of all that as someone you could be proud of.
But goddammit, I knew there was something up with this asshole.
“Hands up!” Ilana barks harshly. “All of you!”
Sol is mesmerized by the Port. Even as he raises his hands, his expression still lacks focus. Ulrich’s own hands shoot up—he’s too flummoxed to even think about disobeying. He looks from the home aide to the Port and back again. Something like madness quavers in his voice as he croaks, “Divya… please tell me this’ll all make sense.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. My hands are in the air, and I have no plan. “It never really will.”
“Face me,” Ilana says, “and walk backwards toward the Port. Do it, now.”
None of us move. My upraised hands curl into fists. Do I still have to fill Ilana’s bucket? “So—what,” I say, “you figured out that there was a Port in the old man’s house, and you managed to get yourself assigned to take care of him. Are you one of the Port-openers? Sol, you would know everyone who’s part of your crew by now, wouldn’t you?”
“She’s not one of us,” says Sol.
Ilana fires the gun. The bullet tears past me and through the old wood of the attic roof. “I’m not fucking around,” she says. “Move, all of you!”
Sol and Ulrich and I take a few ginger steps backward. How could I have been so stupid? But no, this isn’t quite adding up for me yet.
“You’re working for the city councilors,” I hazard. “They sent you to check up on their doddering old alumnus, and then you stumbled across this Port. You—”
“Getting colder, Allard,” Ilana says in a mocking tone. “Keep fucking moving.”
“Until?” I say.
“Come on, Divya, do what she says,” Sol pleads. He walks backward to the Port along with Ulrich, who is swimming through the chaos of his confusion and approaching a resolution—hopefully not to go for the sidearm at his hip. He’s got the training of a cop, sure, but this woman is an unknown quantity. She could be an amateur, or she could be a ninja.
If Ulrich thinks I’m planning on fighting back, he might pull that gun and kill us all. So it’s time to throw in the towel. Even if the home aide is planning to force us through.
“Okay, we’re complying. Right, Ben?” I say. I take more steps
back.
“That’s a good little whore,” Ilana says.
An odd choice of phrasing, for sure. But I’ve held off a bullet to the forehead, for now. Ulrich and Sol and I are standing close together, our backs at the Port. Though it’s flowers instead of fire this time, I still feel the same horrible pull on my body that I felt last time I was in proximity to a Port. Sneaking a glance through this gate, I glimpse an opulent world, peculiarly striped but full of soaring columns and winking stones.
A muffled sound catches my attention: the gagged captive is either trying to warn us or to get our help. Either way, I’m unable to oblige the young man.
“Now step through the Port,” Ilana commands. “All three of you.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say. “You’re supposed to tell us all about your evil plan first. So say you’re not working for the city councilors—you’re working for or with Shaughnessy. The dementia’s an act, but his physical deterioration isn’t. He needed a strong body, and you wanted the power—”
“Stop talking,” Ilana says. “Step through before I shoot you all. I’m giving you a chance. Don’t make me change my mind.”
Sol shoots me a wide-eyed look, says, “See you on the flip side,” and jumps through the gate to an unknown world.
Ben Ulrich, however, stays rooted to the spot, sweat coursing down his face. “The flowers…” he mutters. “The flowers shouldn’t be there.”
I take Ulrich’s hand in my own. He doesn’t resist.
“I won’t let go,” I say. The big man nods quickly, eyes wild. I take a deep breath and step through the turning, blooming gate of flowers.
My stomach turns itself inside out. The flesh flies off my bones and reattaches itself all wrong. I scream, but my grip on (the also screaming Ulrich) remains steady. And then we’re both standing in another world.
It’s a temple or church. Just like there was a temple on the other side of the fiery Port in the Sheafe Warehouse, or the spherical temple to the “spirit of the water” at Stroyer’s Axle. I guess every Port is connected to a temple. Which raises a whole raft of questions.
But for now I focus on my surroundings. The shape of this “temple” is radically different than the others. Five huge rounded portions of the ceiling jut off from the center, like a star… no, like a flower. Almost everything is covered in a pattern of black and white stripes, two different types of stone alternating in a beautiful though unsettling pattern.