Book Two: Magical Thinking
Part Fourteen
Rewind. Play. Rewind. Play. My brain feels like a sack of old glue. I sit on Kelly's couch with my neck craned forward and my arms limp next to me, the only light in the tiny room the dim gray from my laptop screen. Thank goodness for digital cameras.
For the fifteenth time we watch it: the blurry close-up of trailer siding skimming through the mise-en-scene, the faint whispers out of frame and the whimper to follow. The camera swings into the open to the tune of asthmatic gasping and the camera focuses in on the most insane thing I've ever seen, the tableau just weird enough to let the banality of it shine through.
"Your heart belongs to the darkness," the fat one leers, as he brandishes a knife prop Hammer Studios would've found too tacky.
Ceramic clacks on the table in front of me, and I jerk up into Arabella's smile. I look at the mug she's brought for me; somehow I was zoned out enough to not notice her making coffee.
"Anything yet, detective?" There's business underneath that grin.
Shaking my head tells me just how tired I am. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing, no latent symbolism, no tricks..." I drag my fingers through my hair. "I mean, 'belongs to the darkness'? Who is this guy, Tim Curry?"
Arabella doesn't even blink. This is the trouble with liking 'em young. "I'm guessing the goal there was fear," she says, craning in to peer at the freeze-frame. "Overly baroque method, but same result."
"Seems risky as a feeding tactic," Kelly says. She's been stock-still behind us the whole time, every muscle perfectly frozen as she watches pure bullshit cycle through Windows Media Player. "Too close to breaking the agreement, too likely to get certain elements angry."
"Elements that are already jumpy," Arabella says, not coincidentally petting me.
I dig a finger into my temple and try to ignore her subtext. It's like dodging a rocket. "I can explain these two pulling the whole Wicker Man act, but I can't even begin to figure out why someone was recording it."
Arabella slides onto the armrest, props an elbow up on my shoulder. "We've ruled out coincidence?"
"Coincidence is boring," Paul mock-whines, languidly splayed in the armchair. "Our cameraman was, near as we can tell, standing between two trailers with his digital camera pointed at armed men threatening to harvest a man's organs, and he waits until we roll in and break up the party to bolt? Doesn't jive unless we were the thing that really scared him."
"Reading backs Paul up," I say without pleasure. "He was tense but it was that like"—I mime a circle over my sternum—"that singing in your chest right before a performance. Which begs the question, who and what was he performing for?"
"Voyeur?" Kelly asks. "Conspiracy theorist?"
"Demon who thrives on schadenfreude?"
Arabella smirks. "But you were with us, Paul."
He nods in the universal gesture of "Touché", kicks up from his sprawling position. "So then," he licks his lips, "how you going to connect this to Master Gary?"
"I can't," I confess. "I can't even begin to guess what this could have to do with Master Gary, I mean, what use could the guy have for a recording like this? Do you record your friends eating spaghetti?"
"Blackmail?" Kelly suggests. At least she's back in the game with us.
"I guess." My head's very, very heavy. "I don't know. I'm tired, it's late—"
"—you're drunk," Paul says, mimicking my tone.
"That too." Honesty is such a cleansing experience. "I know Gary's mixed up in this, he's too—"
"Pure?" Paul suggests.
"You make it sound so lovely," I counter. "The guy just seems like a mobster, he has to be tied up in this."
Paul shrugs. "So ask him tomorrow during lunch. Maybe he'll stroke his mustaches and tell you his elaborate scheme."
My mental sparkplugs fire; white light pours through my goggle-eyed face. "During lunch..." I chew my lip. "Yeah." My cheeks clench as I grin. "Good call. Good call."
Arabella cocks an eyebrow. "What's going through your noggin, Randall?"
I let the grin come on cold and slow. "Arabella, my dear, my plan has just developed a few fascinating little wrinkles."
"God save the Queen," Paul murmurs.
"Can't get pissed, planning. Kelly, you good to drive again tomorrow?"
"Can do," she says.
"Perfect." I lean back in my chair, satisfaction oozing out of my pores. "Gary's going to be with me for lunch, and I'm guessing he'll have Milk with him." I glance over my shoulder at Arabella. "How do you feel about giving a cult leader's stuff a psychic pat-down?"
"Oh Jesus Christ," Paul moans.
"I'm sure he'd be in favor too," I say.
"Randy," Arabella chides. "Drag me into crazy plans but please, don't try too hard to be witty about them?"
That pours a little sand on the fire. "To the quick." I bow my head, look around the room eagerly. "So we up for it?"
"It's insane," Paul replies. "So yes."
"I will drive," says Kelly.
Arabella reaches her arms to the ceiling. "I'm up for it"—her voice is kitten-high as she stretches—"but first I'm up for sleep. We've had two days of crazy and no days of rest, and if you don't mind me reminding you, a bullet flew very near my head."
"Good thing you have that big bed to get your rest in."
Her eyebrows flick upward. "Watch your subtext. Goodnight, Randall."
"Goodnight, sweet princess." I watch her ass sway all the way upstairs.
"Well that was delightfully illegal," Paul remarks. He rises, wagging his cigarettes at me. "I'm gonna go not be human."
"Let me know how that goes."
He nods like I might actually mean it, looks at Kelly. "Care to join me?"
"Course." She unfolds a smile just for me as we walk toward the front door. "I promise no more conversations for your benefit."
I haven't even figured out a retort before the door slams. I watch the door a moment, wait for Paul to murmur just for my benefit. It doesn't come, most likely because I want it. A stupid man would call that ironic.
I lay down, feel my eyes object as I try to close them. Apparently they prefer the luxurious cobwebby scenery of the ceiling. My thoughts are orbiting tightly around the plan. but none of them connect; I've got seven kinds of evidence for eight kinds of crimes, and no way of reconciling "All of the above" as an answer. Every twelve hours this town has some kind of new weird for me; by my estimation I should wake up tomorrow having turned into a giant roach. At least that'd have the courtesy to not even pretend to make sense.
The couch feels about as welcoming as a bar brawl, but ethanol and stress still drag me down into sleep. I dream of whispers like the shadowed curves of sink drains, clacking long and quite functional nails as they gurgle about how much help they could be. I squirm, clutch my two dead fingers, and hope all I'm doing is dreaming.
Fort Bragg is schizophrenic at noon, small pockets of bustling activity staked out in the middle of brown, listless emptiness. It's most concentrated around the Laurel Street area and the Brewery, semi-button-down local businessmen and barrel-chested guys rubbed raw on hard work. Kelly drives the Impala up Laurel to what looks like either a theater or a windmill, drops me off in the three spaces that pass for a parking lot. I get out and soak up the feel of the town, thoughts of under-filled registers and febrile musings about how to spend the rest of their high.
"You remember the plan?" I ask, leaning back through the window.
"Perfectly," Arabella simpers back. "We hit the trailer park first, you text if there's any reason not to go to Phase Two." I'm flashed a set of delighted teeth. "Saying that makes me feel like a secret agent."
"Your poison pen is in the mail." Sometimes you can't help but smile. "I'll see you cats later."
Paul's eyebrows raise. "Cats?"
"You're welcome." I slam the door.
Down Laurel, back to Main Street, out among the tourists and foodies. There are two restaurants between me and the Fort Bragg Brewery, one of them cleverly called "The Restaurant". That's just enough distance for me to deem my plan irrevocably insane, but not enough for me to think it's worth turning around. I sway up onto the big, welcoming patio; through the big, welcoming doors; and into the extremely brown, extremely wooden interior of the restaurant. My heart plunges into my pelvic girdle.
Master Gary's in the bar off to my right, drinking a goblet of something nut-brown and laughing with two large flannel-clad men. Milk sees me before his boss does, rises in a way that somehow doesn't disturb the festivities. It's like watching tectonic plates shift. He meets me halfway as I walk into the bar, looks down at me like he's wondering how much longer I need on the grill.
"What are you drinking?"
The conversation locks up as it shifts gears. "Vodka," I say, but not as wittily as I'd like. "Be nice if it fell on some lime."
The big guy narrows his eyes and heads bar-ward, demon bobbing along in his chest. I stick my hands in my pockets and show off my best saunter in the direction of Master Gary. Now he manages to notice me.
"Randall," he says brightly. "I was concerned I'd arrived too early."
"Never too early for beer," I quip. Might as well set the bar low.
Gary's smile doesn't waver. "Suppose it's not." He rediscovers the two men he's drinking with, waves their direction. "Gentlemen, this is Randall Chatham, old friend from out of town. Randall, these are Samuel and Kingsley; knew 'em from the church days."
"Pleasure," I say, shaking both their hands. Samuel's a dark-haired guy with a neckbeard, and Kingsley's a blonde currently vying for title of "campiest gay", hair all frosted and lips so shiny I think they're glossed. Both give me the subconscious shiver of psychics as we shake hands. "Church days?" I ask Gary pointedly.
Kingsley chuckles. "Pleasure."
Gary nods, taking us all in, like he's so pleased his good friends could all get together. If he hadn't found religion this guy would've made a fortune selling cars.
"So you guys used to be Children of the Shining One?"
"Back when there was such a thing," Kingsley replies. He's got the drawl down pat. "Then old Gary here went deciding godlessness was next to cleanliness—"
That puts shadows in the depths of Gary's face. He stares into the bottom of his beer glass.
"I didn't decide that," he murmurs.
"Lighten up," Kingsley chides. "End of an era, we're all wiser, it'll all be okay in the end." Gary looks up at Kingsley and again I see the iron in his face, the coiled cobra ready to jump out if you damage his calm. Then it's gone in a cascade of laugh lines.
"Suppose you're right," Gary says, all chuckles. "Suppose you're right."
Kingsley starts to make a joke, and thinks better of it. I fade backward to grab an empty chair.
"So what were you fellas talking about?" I don't care, but it's in my interests to make lots of small talk.
Unfortunately, Milk chooses that moment to return, vodka in hand, and with him a plump blonde waitress who announces that Gary's table for two is all ready. Not a face at the table is disappointed.
"Gentlemen," Gary says, snatching up his goblet. "If you'll excuse me."
"Of course," Samuel says with a salute. "Business before pleasure."
Kingsley grins. "Both is better."
Gary returns the salute sardonically, and signals to Milk to make with the pushing. Everyone in the bar gets out of Gary's way.
Milk and the waitress lead us through the main dining room, into a back area clearly intended for parties—there's a table in here that can easily house double digits. The waitress drops us at a smaller number in the corner, all the chairs cleared away but one, and makes perfunctory offers of refills before departing. Milk finishes rolling Gary up to the table, then he's gone too and it's just me and the cult leader, staring at each other over our menus.
"Those two still work for you?" I ask him.
Gary peers up at me. "I recommend the pulled pork or the Stroganoff. The shrimp if you're feeling lighter." He flips a page, wrinkles his forehead. "And yes. Where are the rest of your team?" he murmurs into the wine list.
"Off following up a lead. Some guy out on Road...409?" I do everything but stare intently at Gary's face. "Some logging road, he might've had contact with Arthur."
Gary is a portrait of calm. "409, huh? Must be out talking to Foreman, he's the only psychic I know still living out there. Nasty place for a bit," he explains, "demon out there kept staging orgies. Older psychics still don't like the resonance."
I file those thoughts away for future nightmares. "You're awfully jovial."
"Used to being treated like a cop?" Gary grins, and I wonder when I started being the prey. "I get your position, Randall, but that doesn't mean we can't be civil."
He's playing me, of course, but something in his eyes makes me question that instinct. I'm glad I have the Tarot card in my pocket. "My position?"
"A peacekeeper is missing." It's matter-of-fact from him, like I'm a friend having a rough patch with the wife. "He went missing under mysterious circumstances, and I have shall we say a checkered past. It's only natural that I be on the list of suspects. Unfortunately, I can do very little to remove myself from that list except cooperate, given that any major effort will seem like an effort to cover my quite-guilty ass—and rightly it should, given the kind of world we live in."
"You mean the kind with demons in it?"
"Very quick," he drawls with a fatherly smirk. "Now, have you decided what you're eating?"
By my estimation the others aren't quite to the trailer park yet. Better be indecisive. "The Stroganoff looks good...but I'm also kind of thinking about the hangar steak."
"Mmm," the old man rumbles. "Hangar steak's good."
"Ooo, or maybe the angel hair pasta."
"Or possibly the stalling?"
There's just enough teasing there to completely stun me. I look up at him, and am bowled over as he launches into a speech.
"Randall, we are obviously here for a friendly little one-on-one interrogation, and I'm happy to cooperate. Arthur is a good man." Is it just me or did he want to say "Was"? "So please, let's not make this unpleasant." He makes a beckoning gesture. "Let's decide what we're eating and then get it over with, once you trust me I'll agree to give you a hand, and then we can maybe go back in the bar and catch the game? Yeah? Sound good to you?"
That dry flapping sound was the entire script for this conversation falling out a window. I straighten my collar, shrug my shoulders, and do my best to believe Sam Spade went through this too.
"Stroganoff, then." I try for a nonchalant smile and manage self-consciously awkward. "How well did you know Arthur?"
"Working relationship." He takes a long sip of his beer. "We knew each other on sight, exchanged kind if occasionally tense words. Not much beyond that."
"And you said Arthur objected to your little reeducation program?"
"Objected is putting it mildly," the old man chuckles. "Arthur was, as I believe I informed you, convinced there had to be some ulterior motive to my activities, and he spent every moment he wasn't formally engaged with other business trying to prove that."
I might see something shaped remotely like new information. "What exactly did he think your motive was?"
Gary all but snorts. "Nothing specific I could tell. That was part of the comedy of it." He makes an expansive gesture. "Knowing Arthur it was something grandiose, some sort of 'demon army' or something like that. Bullshit, I assure you," he says with a grin. "I don't have any interest in leading a flock of any size."
Strike One. "I hate to sound like a CSI episode, but: Did Arthur have any enemies that you knew of? I mean, big enemies, enemies that would be willing to go after him in a more serious fashion."
Gary leans back, stroking that awful beard. He gives it genuine consideration, but just comes up with a shrug. "Not really, he was—hello"—Gary stiffens as a shadow falls quick across the table.
The waitress slides in between us, big smiles for all, her little order pad at the ready. We're both reviewing what we just said, both our countenances extremely mundane.
"You fellas decided?" she asks, a block of raw chipper.
"I think so," Gary says, without consulting me. He flips his menu open, points. "I'll have the Cuban hangar steak, medium rare, and a little refill on my beer." He peers across at me. "Mr. Chatham?"
I don't even look at the menu. "Stroganoff. And—"
White light smacks me on the bridge of the nose. It's a faint feeling, distant, only enough to make icicles start dancing on my forearms, but I can't mistake where it's coming from. Something's got Paul and Ara scared.
"And one of your Russian stouts," I finish, furrowing my brow, hoping maybe I'll just look like I was thinking.
Gary grins. "Old Rasputin."
I nod, wondering if that's my ears ringing.
The girl confirms our orders and leaves in a swirl of happy thoughts, with just a thin oily layer of disgust. Our biggest interruption is gone, and now I'm faced with the yawning gap in conversation and the faint lightning strikes of my friends' minds. Some part of me is screaming at the rest.
"Old Rasputin?" I snark, already commencing the cover-up. "They really don't have a lot to do around here."
"Lot of artists in this town. And drunks." He sloshes his dregs for emphasis. "You had more questions, I'm sure."
"Plenty." Except that in the last three seconds I have forgotten how to ask them. "Any idea what Arthur was working on when he disappeared?"
"Almost none," Gary says. "I know he was concerned about graffiti, something about significant pictures turning up in odd places. Significant like significant." He taps on his brow for emphasis.
"Do you"—I pause again as the waitress swings by with our beers; mine's a black thing that I'm concerned for a moment might be roofing tar—"I mean, do you know much about the graffiti?"
"Only what I hear. Graffiti, heavy with symbols, no apparent rhyme or reason to where it shows up. Word on the more Euclidean streets is that it might be a new gang, such as it is in Fort Bragg. Rumors about a string of crimes happening near the tags."
"Any idea if that's true?"
"As likely as anything." Another sip of beer; this man would be calm in a house fire. "It could be supernatural in origin, sure, some kind of, I dunno, psychic defense network, somebody trying to break up my dragnet, something. But until I have more evidence, even odds it's just kids want to pretend they're Satanists or something."
'Psychic defense network' echoes off the inside of my skull. Moments click together, facial expressions, common threads in the form of Gary's face. There's a chink in his armor. Now to find out if I'm Bard the Guardsman...
"Psychic defense network." I point at the air, intrigued. "You were a sorcerer, right? Big hoodoo?" Keep the face flat; no mischief in the eyes. "Any idea if something like that is out there? A spell that would block a dragnet?"
"Would." Gary's eyebrows drop low. "The key word there is 'would', Mr. Chatham. Past tense." His voice sounds like a chainsaw in need of some wood. "Spells don't work anymore; haven't since the Inquisition closed up shop. Anyone who thinks otherwise"—he sighs as he lifts his glass—"has rocks in his head."
He takes a drink, and for the first time doesn't remake eye contact. I ruffled him, but he might as well be talking Sumerian for all the data that really gives me.
"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, that's fair. So what do you—"
The air shifts again, not cold this time but thick, the passing shiver of a psychic disturbance. Instinct guides my gaze over my shoulder—nothing there, not even a new customer in the foyer—and I return to the sound of a glass clanking hard against the table.
"Randall"—there's something moving in Gary's face now, some crimson ripple I can't quite place—"Randall, is this what you wanted to ask me?" His gestures are much tighter. "Questions about graffiti?"
"Well"—the hairs on my neck stand at attention; I think someone's gone and stolen most of the surrounding air—"well, it's the best lead we have right now, the thing Arthur was looking into, and I mean, it seems to still be going on—"
"Mmm-hmm." He sounds like a teacher, coaxing an explanation he already knows.
"Sorry, is this conversation bugging you—"
The light changes before I can finish my question. I peer up, trying to tell what just happened, and am greeted by the face of Milk, all scowls as he practices looming behind my chair. He's got his hands uncomfortably near my shoulders.
"No," Gary says, again snaring my attention. "No, I assure you this is not bugging me." His hands slide across the table, nails pulling up foothills from the tablecloth. "Except in the sense it's a distraction."
Milk cracks his knuckles behind me.
"So." Gary flashes a smile, and I am very, very cold. "Tell me. What exactly were your friends hoping to find?"
