Elizabeth Webster and the Portal of Doom

by William Lashner

  “Who was that kid you took into the office?” said Natalie.

  “He’s what yesterday was about,” I said. “Believe it or not, that was our banshee’s son. That was Keir McGoogan.”

  “No,” said Natalie.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That’s impossible,” said Henry. “He’s just a kid.”

  “And Keir should be an old man by now,” said Natalie. “He should be gray and stooped and wrinkled like a prune.”

  “He should, but he’s not,” I said.

  “Yikes alive!” said Natalie. “He must have the best skin cream in the world.”

  But I was already getting the the idea that Keir’s secret of eternal youth might be a little scarier than that.

  SHINY DIMES

  We were discussing the Sherman Antitrust Act in social studies—yawn—when Natalie stunned us all by actually raising her hand.

  “Isn’t there something about cruel and unusual punishment somewhere?” she said when called on.

  “Yes, there is,” said Mr. Armbruster. “In the US Constitution. Why the question, Natalie?”

  “Because I think this class qualifies.”

  “I would expect you’d be especially interested in the Sherman Act,” said Mr. Armbruster over the laughter, “since Justice Holmes, the author of your book, joined the majority in the act’s most famous application, the Standard Oil case. Do you know why all our gas stations have different names?”

  “The Standard Oil case?” said Natalie.

  “Correct.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” said Natalie. “Now if they could just clean the bathrooms.”

  That was when the door opened and Keir appeared. He looked a bit sheepish when he handed the slip to Mr. Armbruster, as if the laughter at Natalie’s bad joke was aimed at him.

  “So, class, we have a new student. Keir McGoogan. Take a seat anywhere, Keir.”

  I was sitting in my usual place, in the back row next to Natalie. I moved over a seat, leaving a gap for Keir. He walked through the desks and sat right between us.

  “Where have you been?” I whispered to him.

  “I was being tested,” he whispered back. “I didn’t do so well.”

  “Let me see the schedule Mr. Gavigan gave you.”

  He handed me the paper. Remedial math. Sixth-grade language arts. Sixth-grade earth science.

  “He’s making me take typing,” said Keir. “What’s the point of that? Will I end up working in the typing pool?”

  “What does typing have to do with swimming?” I said. “You can’t swim and type at the same time.”

  “You can almost be funny sometimes, Elizabeth.”

  “Who’s trying to be funny?” I said. “This is going to be harder than we thought.”

  “So who can tell us about John D. Rockefeller?” said Mr. Armbruster to the class.

  “He was, like, the richest American ever,” said Juwan.

  “Yes, he was,” said Mr. Armbruster.

  “And he built that oil company up from nothing,” said Shelly.

  “Yes, he did,” said Mr. Armbruster. “In fact, the Standard Oil case was about breaking up the very company he built. Anything else?”

  I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Keir was raising his hand. “What are you doing?” I whispered. “Put your hand down. What did I tell you? And you don’t even have the textbook—”

  “Keir,” said Mr. Armbruster. “It’s so nice to have a new student speak up so soon. Yes, what do you know about Mr. Rockefeller?”

  Keir stood and looked nervously around, like he had been caught at something, before speaking up. “He used to give dimes to the kiddies.”

  Mr. Armbruster’s eyes widened and then he started walking toward Keir. “Yes, he did. That’s an interesting little tidbit. How did you learn that?”

  “I just know it,” said Keir. “He would have his servants shine the dimes with spit and a rag and then he’d give a little lecture along with the dime. The papers, they lapped it up. My mam said it was so nice of him, but I figure he could have given eight bits as easy as a dime, or a plate of food if the kid was hungry, or a bed if the kid had no place to sleep. But that would have cost more than the smallest coin they had. So instead he tossed the dimes, polished with his servants’ spit, and polished his own apple at the same time. The end.”

  When Keir sat down, Mr. Armbruster gave him a long look and then spun around to address the class. “Any comments?”

  “I’d have taken the dime,” said Juwan. “And maybe I’ll take Keir’s dime, too, if he doesn’t want it. Then I’d have two dimes.”

  “Enough for two whole caramels,” said Natalie.

  “Look, anyone wants to give me money I’ll take it. Let everyone say how good he is on cable news for giving it away, who cares?”

  “My dad said one of the mobsters in Philly used to give out turkeys every Thanksgiving.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “He was a mobster!”

  “But a nice mobster.”

  “What’s eight bits, anyway?” said Natalie.

  “Eight bits is a dollar,” said Mr. Armbruster.

  “Then I’d rather have the dollar,” said Juwan.

  “I’d rather have the turkey,” said Natalie.

  As the class laughed, I couldn’t help but grow angry. I mean, here I was in the middle of a serious Keir situation, and my friend Natalie was running for class clown.

  After the bell, which as far as I was concerned could not have come too soon, I pulled Keir aside in the hallway, looked this way and that, and then said in a low voice, “What was all that stuff about the dimes?”

  “The teacher asked a question,” said Keir.

  “But why did you have to answer? Didn’t I say to keep your head down and ignore everything? What about that wasn’t clear? Did you hear me participate? No, you did not hear me participate.”

  “Don’t you ever participate?”

  “Only because they grade it, which is stupid. I mean, as long as I talk I get a better grade no matter what stupid things I say? How does that make sense? No, I’m not here to participate.”

  “Then what are you here for, Elizabeth?”

  “What kind of question is that?” I stuttered around for a bit and then said, “I’m just here. I show up, I trudge from class to class, I go home. That’s middle school.”

  “But it went over, didn’t it? The dime thing. It got the class yakking.”

  “You’re supposed to be a twelve-year-old kid. How does a twelve-year-old kid know any of what you talked about? Mr. Armbruster went to Harvard. Harvard! He’s smart enough to figure out exactly who you are. You need to be more careful.”

  “Head down.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Ignore everyone.”

  “See, it’s not so hard. Now I probably won’t see you again until school’s over. Meet me outside the front door, okay, and we’ll head down to my father’s office.”

  The bell rang.

  “You better get to your next class,” I said. “You’re already late.”

  I watched him saunter off, looking at his schedule and then at the numbers on the doors. Poor thing, he’d never get the hang of it.

  There was a weird scene outside the building when I met up with Henry and Keir after school. Two cop cars and a blue van were parked in the bus circle and a group of adults in uniforms were standing beneath the trees where the countess’s birds were still perched. Two of the adults in uniforms were carrying poles with round nets on the tops, as if they were hunting butterflies. The sign on the side of the van read ANIMAL CONTROL.

  Mr. Armbruster, standing just outside the front doors, had his hands on his hips as he watched. “We’re having a bird issue,” he said when he saw the three of us join the group of kids already surrounding him. “A kettle of vultures.”

  “A kettle?” said Henry. “Are they going to boil them for soup?”

  “A kettle is what
you call a group of vultures, Mr. Harrison, sir,” said Charlie Frayden, standing next to the teacher.

  “That’s correct,” said Mr. Armbruster. “Like a pack of wolves and a murder of ravens.”

  “These vultures are actually of the genus Cathartes and the species aura,” said Charlie Frayden. “Turkey vultures, to be precise.”

  We all turned to look at him like he was giving a speech in Latin, which he sort of was.

  “Doug and I are birders,” said Charlie with a shrug. “Just something to do on Sundays. This kettle has already been reported on the local bird forums. Birders are coming from all over to see it.”

  “I don’t blame them,” said Mr. Armbruster. “Magnificent creatures, actually, magnificent and disgusting at the same time. The animal control people think there must be a corpse nearby. Maybe a dead deer.”

  “I’m sure that’s it,” I said. “If they were looking for live prey, they’d probably go to one of the elementary schools. Easier pickings.”

  Mr. Armbruster gave me a look and then said, “A couple of the vultures attacked someone trying to visit the school. Mrs. Haddad saw it and called animal control. Now they’re trying to get rid of the birds.”

  “Good luck on that,” said Keir.

  Something about that little story set me to scanning the school parking lot. That’s when I spied the strange-looking man standing across the street from the school. He was dressed in black, with an eye patch and a cane, and he looked vaguely familiar. Beside him stood a large gray dog. Was this man the visitor? Who was he visiting? And why was he staring at us with his one good eye?

  “The animal control people tried waving their arms, yelling out insults, hooting,” said Mr. Armbruster. “Now I think they’re planning to play some loud music.”

  “Rap?” I said.

  “Ramones?” said Henry.

  “Rachmaninoff,” said Mr. Armbruster.

  “That should do it,” said Henry.

  “Rakes work, too,” said Keir.

  “How was your first day of school, Keir?” said Mr. Armbruster.

  “Instructive, sir.”

  “Keep up the good work.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then we were off, the three of us, heading for the train station. We hadn’t gone ten feet when we heard it, a flush of sound, like the whoosh of a great gust of wind. Right then, up above us, I saw them, the kettle of vultures, rising and circling, as if they were now indeed looking for live prey and the live prey they were looking for was us.

  There was a mild roar from behind us as the teachers and kids clapped and cheered at the disappearance of the birds. “Keep walking,” I said, and that’s what we did, but as we kept walking I looked back.

  Everyone was staring up at the birds, everyone but Mr. Armbruster, who was looking straight at us. Or, more specifically, straight at Keir.

  And the stranger with the eye patch? He started to follow us until one of the vultures peeled away from its kettle and flew straight at him. He lifted his arms to cover his head, turned away, and ran.

  THE GIRL WITH THE WOODEN STAKE

  On the train ride into the city, while Keir taught Henry one of his dice games—rolling the little red cubes on the seat between them—I finally cracked open the old book my father had given me.

  It was divided into a series of lectures by this Holmes guy, some on contracts, which might come in handy on Keir’s case, and some on crimes. But I was looking for something about a goat, and there was nothing in the contents about a goat. There was, however, something about cows, which was the closest I could get, so I gave it a look.

  Holmes talked about a case from the 1800s called Rylands v. Fletcher, which told you what responsibility you had for damage done by your cow. Generally, you only had to pay up for any damage your animal caused if you didn’t act like a reasonable person in taking care of your animal. That’s called acting negligently. But the Rylands rule said if you owned an animal that was likely to do mischief, like a cow, and then the cow escaped and chewed up someone else’s lawn, then even if you acted like the most reasonable person in the world—the Queen of Reasonableness, a librarian even!—you would still have to pay. It seemed unfair, but there it was. If your pet was a dog, a cat, or a hamster? You’d be safe, because those are normal sweet little animals. A cow? You’d be in trouble. But what about a gremlin?

  I had met Mr. Topper’s gremlin. I had grabbed her out of the air and looked her in the eye and swept up the mess she’d made. Mischief was her middle name. As we walked through the tunnels of the underground train station next to City Hall, I was thinking that this case was going to be harder than I thought, when I looked up and spotted a girl thirty feet away running toward us through the crowd.

  The girl was older than me, high school age at least, tall, with torn jeans that hung loosely, a black leather jacket, and wild hair. Was she looking right at me as she ran? Yes—or maybe she was looking just to my right, where Keir was walking along with Henry. And in her hand was a large wooden spike.

  I froze as the girl in the leather jacket, still running through the scattering crowd, shouted, “This is for Travis, you undead abomination!”

  She raised the stake over her head and took two more steps before she leaped.

  I’d like to say I bravely stood in front of Keir McGoogan, my client, to protect him from the deranged girl in the black leather jacket. I’d like to say I did anything other than fall into a quivering heap on the floor as the girl with her wooden stake sailed through the air with murderous intent on her face. But that would all be a lie.

  All I know is when I heard another shout and then a splat, I looked up from my spot on the floor and saw the girl sprawled face-first to our side. Above her stood a man in full fighting pose.

  “Begone, demon huntress,” said the pale, pointy-nosed man in a black cape, with matching hat and eye patch. He waved his cane at the sprawled girl as if it was one of those thin French swords you see in old pirate movies.

  The girl spun to her feet and took a graceful step forward, like a cat stalking her prey. That’s when the man’s dog, huge and gray, looking very wolfish with hair rising all along its spine, bared its teeth and growled.

  The girl hesitated.

  The dog lowered its head.

  There was a moment of frozen expectation before the girl spun and sprinted away as the dog, with howls and growls, charged after her. You could chart the progress of the chase by the screams from the horrified commuters.

  Still on the ground, I took a moment to check on my friends. Henry was on his feet, twisting to watch the chase, and Keir, who stood close behind him, was doing the same. I couldn’t tell if Henry had bravely stood in front of Keir, or if Keir had jumped behind Henry, using the taller boy as a shield.

  Still shaking, I had started struggling to my feet when a hand reached down to assist me. I looked up into the eye of the man who had saved us. I was so close I could see the scars beneath his eye patch.

  “I help you up, ja?” he said with an accent, as if he had just come from planting tulips in Amsterdam.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, though I wasn’t, and with my knees still shaking I grabbed his hand and let him pull me to standing.

  “There, there,” he said. “Calm your heart, Ms. Webster. I trust you remain unhurt.”

  “You know my name?” I said.

  “Ja, of course. The famous Elizabeth Webster. Famous at least in some circles. Fortunately for you, those circles are my circles.”

  “Thank you for doing what you did, sir,” said Henry. “I don’t know what just happened, but man, that was close.”

  “Too close,” said Keir.

  “That was quite a kick you gave her,” said Henry. He did a bad imitation of a karate kick. “You tumbled her right out of the air.”

  “It was a simple vechtsporten sweep,” said the man. “I was afraid something like this might happen. It is why I followed you three from the school.”

  “Afraid what wo
uld happen?” I said.

  “An unprovoked attack. Danger is all about you, Elizabeth Webster.”

  “About me?”

  “Ja, who else?” said the man.

  “Gulp,” I said. “Who is the girl?”

  “Her name is Pili. She was made crazy by grief. A sad case, a tragic case, the facts of which are better left unexplored. And I regret to say she is not the only danger for you, as long as your client is by your side. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Rudolf Van.”

  Dr. Van fished a card out of his vest and handed it to me.

  “What kind of sawbones are you?” said Keir.

  He looked at Keir closely as he answered. “I am exactly what you need, young man. I am an educator and a protector. A doctor of metaphysical science, to be precise.” He smiled and then turned to me. “I would love to stay and chat—and we all have much to chat about, ja?—but I need to collect my pet before she gets into much trouble.”

  “That’s some dog,” said Henry.

  “Her name is La Loba,” said Dr. Van. “Quite cuddly, actually.”

  “That Pili girl, she yelled the name Travis—who is Travis?” I asked.

  Dr. Van looked at me, first with amusement and then with sympathy. “He is the brother of that young girl. Was, I should say. Some tragedies provoke sadness, some provoke revenge. Goodbye, my friends, and be careful.”

  And just that quickly, he was gone, his cape flapping behind him as he hurried away in the same direction as the girl and the dog, which probably wasn’t a dog at all.

  I looked down at the card still in my hand. RUDOLF VAN, it read, DOCTOR OF THE METAPHYSICAL SCIENCES. I had never heard of such a thing. It sounded like the kind of degree you buy on the internet, like Doctor of Television Studies. But it was the next line that interested me more:

  HEADMASTER OF THE SEDONA ACADEMY FOR SPECIAL CASES.

  That sounded quite peculiar. I sensed just then that the Sedona Academy for Special Cases didn’t specialize in teaching math.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, and we did, hustling through the still-staring crowd and climbing the steps to the street.