Book Two: Magical Thinking
Part Nine
I wake up bright and early to the throb of my brain cells trying to commit suicide; Arabella's there by the couch, smirking over me with three Motrin and a glass of water. Once I've donned clean undies and peeled the layer of linoleum off my tongue it's the Mountain View contingent into the Cav and Kelly off in her Impala, apparently to interrogate our brain-muggers from the night before, while we head to the flyspeck towns south of Fort Bragg.
We stop at McDonald's for something masquerading as breakfast; it's less than ten minutes before the car smells like a deep fryer. Our route takes us along a gray tongue of highway flanked by cypresses and redwoods, then out along a coastline just begging for us to go careening off into the sea. It'd be a breathtaking view if my brain weren't filing for divorce.
"Hey Paul," I ask, once I've finished the shoe disguised as a hash brown.
"Hey Randall," he asks back, almost the same tone.
It's too damn early. "Got a question for you about your conversation with—"
"You want to know why Kelly and me kept talking out loud."
I not only don't have to ask the question, I don't even have to voice my frustration when he cuts into me. "That'd be the long and the short, yeah." I catch his eyes in the mirror. "And how's our breakfast today?"
"Smells like a hen exploded in your wheel well." He sniffs theatrically. "And it wasn't anything you need to worry about, man. Kelly's trying to get better at passing, y'know? Seem more human. Think she's worried Arthur's not comin' back and I guess he used to cover for her."
"That's a whole lot of conjecture."
"Well it's not like my evidence is admissible in court, yeah?" He leans forward and claps me on the shoulder, which is a nice snare-drum hit to my visual centers. "She's just tryin' to learn, man. Don't go jumpin' at shadows."
"She was talking to you about me," I grate, as I perform the kung-fu needed to let a Miata pass around me.
"Oh, you were awake?" His tone says shock, but over the link-up I feel warm satisfaction. "Sorry about that. She's just freaked over this whole Pocket thing, scared of what it means, y'know. I set her straight."
I'm shaking my head before he even finishes. "The Pocket. Fuck, man." I blink and the ocean's out of view behind cartoon-massive flower bushes. "You get one angle man in trouble and everyone gets millennial."
"You should talk about something else," Arabella murmurs from the passenger seat.
I grin over at her. "Getting sick of the dick-waving?"
"Well, yes," she admits; there's a spark behind her smirk. "But also we just got scanned."
I go quiet; Paul shuffles back into his seat. It hits again, that insect-scratch feeling at the back of my mind. I slam my defenses shut and think about nothing but the drive, as loud and as much as I can. Some algebra slips in there, and a gaffe at my parents' anniversary, but at least those are hard to weaponize.
"Gary's boys?" I ask, as we pass a well-manicured forest.
"So says Occam's Razor," replies Arabella.
I lick my lips. "Call Kelly?"
Arabella flips her phone open, claps it shut again. "No cell service." She doesn't sound perturbed; our link-up is full of angry maggots. "I'm guessing he's got another dragnet checking the borders around his house."
"Beats an alarm system," Paul muses. "How long do you think 'til we get there?"
"I haven't seen the bridge yet," I reply.
"Great, this fucker's gonna know our birthdays."
"Well especially now," Arabella snaps back. "Watch your mouth, McCartney."
We roll through the south end of Mendocino County in total silence, watching the woods give way to open fields, and then a long bridge with a trailer park below it, just far down enough you have to imagine the fall and the impact. We take the first left after the bridge as per our instructions, and roll into a long corridor of pine trees studded here and there with houses.
"Rich," Paul says, ticking off residences. "Rich, poor, rich, rich—oh, hey, middle class—"
"Stop it," Arabella sneers. She unfolds the directions before I even have to ask. Psychic talent: Nature's GPS. "We're headed for mile post marker 5." She looks up in disbelief. "Mile post marker. You ever expect to gauge directions by mile post marker?"
"About as much as I expected to believe in parallel dimensions of existence," I reply, still thinking hard about nothing important.
"Technically—" Paul begins.
"Shut up," the two of us echo.
Mile post marker five is exactly where I expect it to be, after two miles of more or less nothing. There's a road there, or at least a patch of erosion; I guide the Cavalier through the trees, and within a hundred feet I'm seeing a strip of balcony to our right, a not-at-all-suspicious outbuilding next to an expansive two-story house, and a pinch-faced little blonde woman standing right in the middle of the open field by the house.
"Think Master Gary got a sex change?" Paul asks.
I park in response to his question, and hop on out of the car. Part of me's saying I should be raising my hands. But I don't feel any intrusions, and the look on the blonde's face seems to be at least an attempt at a smile.
"You must be the peacekeepers," she says, her cheer served cold. "Anna Doring." She sticks out a hand like a pink spider crab, and tightens that smile up just for me.
"Randall Chatham," I say, shaking her hand—I catch a flash of a Seal of Solomon—"and yeah, we are." I shove my hands in pockets. "This is Arabella Biaggi, and the fella back there—"
"Paul McCartney," Anna responds. By the scales on her chest I'm putting her at forty and overtanned. "I apologize for being a little mysterious, we picked up his shielding on our scan. Master Gary is inside," she says, before I can respond to that. "He's been expecting you."
I smirk darkly. "For about twenty minutes, I'm guessing."
I get an enigmatic smile over her shoulder.
Anna leads us across the deck to a pair of sliding glass doors, which open onto a living room that looks like a someone bombed a Bed Bath and Beyond: matched couches and chairs, matched coffee table and dinner table, the whole kitchen the same red and black Good Cook stuff. If it weren't for the copy of Locus on the dinner table I'd suspect we were in a model home.
"Master Gary," Anna calls, through a door on the far wall—I catch an inch of converted garage, some kind of workshop. "They're here."
The sounds of puttering die out; Anna gives us a big fake smile and minces off into the kitchen area. The whole room feels like polite fictions, bright white thoughts blotting out the tensions. The door to the garage opens again, and out comes a demon.
"F—" I say, and catch myself.
The body's huge, middle-age fat piled on muscle, a linebacker wearing a Jerry Garcia mask. The thing inside him looks like a semiautomatic frog. I shoot a confused glance at Paul, and then the big guy reaches behind him and hauls a fat man in a wheelchair up out of the sunken garage.
I am not impressed by Master Gary. He's fat on a frame not meant to carry it, narrow little shoulders with a huge belly and a red-gray Jesus beard that really doesn't work with the extra jowls. His wheelchair's got a St. Christopher figurine hot-glued to one armrest and Elvis playing cards taped to the spokes, in case anyone thought we'd be reading his mind. Master Gary smiles up at us, and I immediately decide I want to kick this guy's ass.
"Gentlemen. Lady"—he sends a nod Ara's way—"I'm glad we're finally getting to meet. Gary Callahan," he pronounces, and sticks out his hand.
There's a moment of awkward silence, as each of us grudgingly follows his unspoken command to bring the handshake to him. I do it last.
"Randall," I say, once the other two are finished. "Who's the Lovecraftian?"
The big guy looks at me. I think his face is incapable of "pleasant".
"He goes by Milk," Gary says, without a lick of concern. "I know what you must think, but he's just a handyman. Keeps the house working, fills generators—"
"—Scares psychics—" Paul cuts in.
Gary's smile manages to stay kind. "He does make people of the empowered persuasion think twice, yes." He shrugs, a little abashed. "What can I say? My line of work it's a real concern."
"Cult leader?" I ignore the mental daggers flying out of the kitchen.
"Miracle worker," Gary corrects. "And I'm retired. Plus Milk's the only guy who has the guns to lift this fucker up and around the house, y'know?"
From the kitchen, Anna sniffs. Gary seems to ignore her.
"Have a seat, please," the old man says, still pleasant.
We all slide in around the dining room table, Milk pushing Gary in opposite and then going back to hulking by the door. Gary runs his hands over the table, smile faint but unyielding.
Arabella gives him the stink-eye. "You're a retired miracle worker?"
Gary's dimples get cavernous. "Creative titling," he says.
"You were a magician," I say, with a quick mental elbow for Arabella. She's not too pleased I spelled it out for her.
Gary shrugs, a ghost in his eye. "You'd be surprised how many people needed fireworks to lead them to the truth."
"Truth's a funny word for it," Paul says.
Gary shrugs. "I was a huckster." There's a shadow in his voice now, in his eye. "I won't deny it. You try living an existence that depends on belief, see what you'll do for some juice."
"Hence the retirement," Arabella says, with a little more force than needed.
Gary's face clouds over. "Yes." His voice is on its way somewhere else.
"What can I get you all to drink?" Anna asks, bringing Gary out from gazing at his stomach.
"Coffee," he says, looking up like he's relieved.
"I'm good," I say.
"Water," says Arabella.
"Whiskey," says Paul.
Apparently Gary finds that charming; he shakes off whatever little funk hit him, nods his thanks to a departing Anna, and gives us all a smile.
"So what can I do for you?" he asks, the smile taking an edge. "Though I think I can guess."
"Oh?" I ask, filing questions away. I take the bait. "What's your guess?"
He nods, smiling at some joke no-one's made. "Matthew called me after your altercation at Denny's." That warms my heart. "I'm guessing you're worried about some lay-psychic running his own surveillance network."
"Obviously you're college educated." I give him one eighth of a smile. "So then you probably know what I'm going to ask."
"My owls aren't that good, Randall." He gives me a grin just the right size for my fist.
"Well, Gary, what I'm going to ask is, why are you running your own surveillance network? I mean, given that you acknowledge your laity."
"I think that's just a noun." He smiles at me, nods to Anna as she gives him a cup of coffee. "And honestly, Randall, I'm just trying to help people."
Anna makes the rounds, with water for Arabella, a Scotch on the rocks for Paul, and a dirty, dirty look for yours truly. I deflect it with my winning smile, and she goes off to the living room area to read Locus and try to calm down.
"So," Arabella asks, while I'm pestering the help, "exactly how are you helping people?"
Gary makes an expansive gesture, like his wrists can barely compass the generosity. "Mendocino County is a big place, much bigger than two peacekeepers can cover even if the super population is a little low."
"Super?" Paul asks snidely.
"Supernatural." Gary doesn't miss a beat. "We don't have a large population, like I said, but it's spread out; and our wonder twins wind up working part of Sonoma, too. And I have money I don't need, money I could use to help...so I figure, I can kill three birds with one stone. Young psychics get the money they need to survive while they get their powers together enough to get on their feet"—my fists clench—"young troublemakers have real work to do instead of raising Cain, and the peacekeepers"—his hand sweeps to take us all in—"get some much-needed help."
"That's a wonderful story," I say. "It'd help the plot a little if you added a part where the peacekeepers knew about this."
Gary looks a little hurt. "I told Arthur."
"Before or after he went missing?"
I'm guessing that crackling noise Gary just made is frustration. "Of course. He must not've told her..."
I ignore that one. "How far out does your dragnet go? Where do you station your 'owls'?" I rake the air with my quotes.
"All over," Gary says, bewildered. "Fort Bragg proper, Cleone, Road 409..."
"How about Ukiah?"
His brow furrows. "Yes, of course Ukiah, it's a major population center."
I give Arabella a smile, which requires turning the right direction to see Anna slap the magazine down onto the coffee table.
"Mr. Chatham," she says, teeth grinding, "I know what you're saying even if Master Gary is too nice to admit he sees it too." She marches over next to Gary and Milk, arms crossed like mom catching you with the cookies. "Master Gary isn't in violation of the agreement."
"Anna," Gary says.
She doesn't even pause. "If you are going to try to implicate Master Gary in a violation of—"
"Anna."
That's a new channel Gary just flipped to; his cheer is all gone, the big laugh lines on his face dissolved. His voice is stone and iron, and his eyes tell me that if she doesn't stop it there will be consequences so great they'll require a whole separate language to describe. Anna looks at him, and at Milk, still solid and blank; and with a glower at me she marches back into the kitchen.
"I should explain myself," Gary intones, like he's doing us a favor.
"Should you?" Paul asks. I'd think he was rude if I hadn't thought it first.
Again, Gary turns the other cheek. "I understand now, I do, that you suspect me of being involved in Arthur's disappearance. And that's fair. Arthur was..." Gary hums to himself as he looks for the word. "A little obsessed, is I think what I mean."
"Obsessed with you?" I ask.
"With what I'm doing. I'm..." Gary sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Might as well out with it, I've been trying to make some headway with the local parasites."
I stay placid despite the alarm bells going off in my skull. "Please define headway in one hundred words or less."
Gary plays with the grain on the table as he talks. "You know what astral parasites get up to," he says, with that fraternal purr to his voice. Please note how he never looks at Paul. "It's not that it's bad, really, but young ones, I mean a year or so into their bodies, are just figuring out their appetites and not precise in how they trigger the thoughts they want. It's like a golden retriever with a stick of dynamite. And then there are the ones that decide they prefer to eat big when they eat, or the ones that just plain feed on things the target can't survive—"
Paul and I both crack our knuckles.
"Well," Gary says, with a used-car smile, "my point is, I've been working the local area. Putting some of the old charm to work. Trying to help young ones direct themselves constructively, and getting the old ones out where the peacekeepers and the like can see them." His shrug is a little tighter than the previous ones. "But when astral parasites are involved it's easy to mistake philanthropy..."
"Arthur thought you were settin' up franchises," Paul says. "Getting' the local angle men under your thumb."
"Yes." Gary hasn't processed the slang. "It's really only natural when you're part of a conspiracy to assume other ones, I figure. And I don't imagine that business with the Pocket helped." I think that was aimed at me, but I've been sensitive. "Arthur's been digging up dirt on me all over town, or trying: collaring demons, pumping my employees for information. Serious nuisance but in this line of work if all you're getting is harassed..." He shrugs, smiling at his own private joke. "He and Milk had a couple altercations, nothing physical of course."
"Wouldn't have to be." I say it nice and flat.
"The point is...I get why you'd suspect me." He puts his hands to his chest, every inch the accused. "But I need you to understand I'm not a monster. Just easily mistaken." He looks down at his belly again. "And if I can help you find Arthur—"
"You can," I say. "And you should." I glance over at Anna, the hot to Milk's cold, and decide to cut it short. "How about lunch tomorrow? You can bring the mook."
Milk bares way too many teeth at me, but Gary just asrches an eyebrow.
"Sounds lovely. How about the Fort Bragg Brewery? I'll pay."
I fake a smile. "I officially won't argue." My chair barks as I shove it back over the carpet. "Thanks for the explanation, Gary."
"And for the whiskey," Paul says, as he makes a point of downing it.
"Of course." And Gary gives us the last of his smiles. "Happy to help."
"You know how to get back to town?" Anna asks. She doesn't want to.
"Go back the way we came, yeah?" I chuckle. "Have a good day, all of you." I look Anna in the eye. "I mean it."
And we all pile out of the house, one big unit sweeping through the patio door. No-one bothers to say goodbye.
We pull out in silence, take the first part of the drive with no sound but us breathing. All our brains are on a defensive scan, as armored as we can get while still poking at the landscape. This stretch of highway's got zero symbolism, the odd spark from a lawn gnome and not a whole lot else, so psychics stand out like constellations. I count one, two (don't think about the fingers) three before we've exited Gary's "street", and then another one as we approach that vertigo-ready bridge. As soon as we hit a dead zone, Arabella pops the question:
"Innocent?"
Paul and I trade a smirk in the rear-view mirror. His eyebrows tell me I get to field this one.
"He's a philanthropist," I say. "With an occult twist. He had an empire that's long since crumbled, but all the money that comes with such an endeavor, and all he wants to do with his money is give jobs to young psychics and try to teach the angle men the error of their ways." I simper at the road in front of me. "We have a word for that."
"Philanthropist?" Arabella offers.
"Mobster. Plus he's full of shit." I accelerate a little as we pass the trimmed patch of forest. "Matthew told us himself Gary extended the dragnet because Arthur went missing, and yet he didn't tell Kelly he was doing so? And he just happens to have a little speech planned about how Arthur was paranoid and targeting him?" I shake my head, and try to pry my foot out of the dent it's made in the accelerator. "He's full of shit. Kelly's full of shit. And they're both full of shit about Arthur. I get one more person telling me lies about Arthur and it's a conspiracy." My eyes narrow. "So let's see if we can find 'em."
Arabella chuckles at me. "So what's the plan, Mr. Marlowe?"
"I—"
My central nervous system shuts down.
I wasn't feeling it before under all the defenses; but with a scan going I catch it just fine. Somewhere, somehow, something near here gives off a shot of a Seal of Solomon, rendered lovingly on a white background. My mind fills up with warning screams.
So much for finding Arthur.
