Casting the First Stone Section 2 of 4 Copyright 1998 W. R. DeAngelo Rights to post granted to FTP site and FK fanfic site only. Names of persons associated with Fk fandon purposely used with their permission and are meant in fun / tribute. Everyone else, it's just a coincidence, folks. This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. 8. Chapter Toronto "This is it," Nick said to the closed door of the precinct basement office. He knocked sharply, but there was no response. "Captain said he spoke to her last night. She volunteered to stay late and wait for us." Tracy massaged the side pocket of her magenta suit jacket containing the evidence bag. She tapped her foot. "Try knocking harder." Nick leaned an ear to the door and concentrated on the room within, analyzing the sounds with his immortal senses. He could hear a woman singing under her breath. "I'm in loooove with my caaar, got a feeeel for my automobile. I'm in looove with my caaar, string back gloves and my automolooove." "I don't think she can hear us," he said. "She's wearing headphones." Nick rapped hard again, but expecting no response, opened the door and entered. Tracy followed in. Inside the small room, an impish brunette hunched over a white poster board, oblivious to her visitors. The room contained a computer, a small light table, a copier, a large machine of unknown utility, a worktable, and shelves filled with books and files. She was intent with her rubber cement and scissors, doubtlessly putting together an exhibit for court. She turned, her hand up to her heart, when Nick shut the door. "Geez, you startled me!" she said, pushing off her headphones and cutting off the player. "Hello. You must be my appointment. I'm Dorothy Parker, Documents. You can call me Dory. Detective Vetter? Knight?" She held out her hand looking for someone to take it. Her smile was slightly deeper and off kilter to the right. Her eyes crinkled at the edges like a cat's that had just polished off the family canary. "Yes, Dory. I'm Vetter, call me Tracy." Tracy took her hand. "Nick." Nick shook her hand in turn, noting the equipment with interest. "I don't think I've been down here before." "No, I don't get much company from Homicide." She waved her hand about the office. "This isn't our office. It is just the spare equipment room. I like to work in here when I have a lot of material to sort from RCMP. I'd offer you a chair, but I only have the one." Dory parked herself, without an apology, into the lone seat before the computer. "Your Captain said you wanted to talk to me; about something good I hope." "The rumor in the department is that you know about these." Tracy pulled out the evidence bag and dangled it before Dory's face. It swayed back and forth slightly as she looked at it. "Rocks?" Dory took the bag. "You wanted to talk to me about rocks? Looks like hematite." She shrugged. "They're cheap as dirt." Nick leaned against the worktable; his arms and legs crossed. "No, the Rune markings on the rocks. The Cap called around and several people said you knew about them." Dory smirked. "I can imagine what they said." She looked through the plastic bag at the small gold symbols. "Where did you find these?" "All three stones were laid out in a row over the head of our victim, a woman," said Nick. "In a nice neat row, eh? Was it vertical or horizontal?" "Horizontal." "Do either of you know anything about Runes?" Nick shrugged. "Just that they're used for fortune telling. " He did not add that stones had been cast for him before he became a vampire. "I read some of Tolkien's books when I was a teenager," said Tracy, "but they didn't explain their meanings." "I'll tell you what, I'll bring in my Runes and my book for you to borrow. I use the Blum set." "You use Runes?" asked Tracy, raising her eyebrows. "Sure." "Why?" "I'm Norwegian. It seemed like the thing to do," laughed Dory. "It's fun." "Ah, I thought Celtic," said Nick, being friendly. "Okay, that too. Who can tell anymore?" Dory said, pulling out a paper tablet and pen. "I don't know what book your perp uses, but cross your fingers. He left you a simple three Rune casting. I need to know the exact layout." Dory wrote the three symbols onto the paper and said, "Facing the victim, which was first?" "Here," said Tracy, "I've got the photo from the scene." Dory's face sagged. She pulled her upper lip back in distaste. "Don't make me look at that." "This one," said Nick, pointing. "Left to right it was the x's, then the arrow, then the fish." "Facing the victim, were the arrow and fish pointing up or down?" "Both were up." "Okay," Dory sighed. "The problem with Runes is that their interpretation depends upon which book you're using and what question you're asking. I'm lazy. I use just one book. There is a general consensus regarding what each symbol means but," she raised her palms, "there can be a lot and I do mean a lot of gray area. Each person develops his own internal profile for each Rune based on his experiences casting. Also, in a three Rune horizontal layout, some people read them left to right, others, right to left." Tracy said, "How will you know which way to read them?" "I won't," said Dory. "Are you just going to guess?" "Sure, but we'll try it both ways and see which works best," said Dory sounding not too sure about the outcome herself. "Each Rune has an overt meaning and a deeper meaning. Either or both may be pertinent to your case. For instance, one Rune represents Man, or rather, humans. In a deeper sense, it can indicate the Cosmic Self and its growth from the mundane to the Divine. I'll spare you the details. Your guy may be working from an obscure line from another book or his own subjective delusions. We may not know what he is trying to say until you ask him." "This isn't going to be helpful?" asked Tracy. "Don't get you hopes up. This isn't going to spell out anyone's name." "Go with what you have," said Nick. "You're really putting me on the spot here," complained Dory. "We're in a hurry," said Nick for he suddenly was in a hurry. Probably, their perp was already casting about for his next victim. If this was a dead end, they had better move on. "I'll start right to left. Most people read them right to left. Maybe." Dory wrote on the paper for the detectives as she spoke. "To cast Runes, one must ask a question. The question should regard timeliness or clarification of a situation. I don't know what question this guy is asking, but let's just throw caution to the wind, shall we, and ask, 'Why kill this person?' Woman, you said?" "Woman," said Tracy. "I still have pictures if you want to look." "Ah, thank you, no," Dory said, screwing up her face. "The three Rune casting represents Overview, Challenge, and Action, in that order. That is to say, the overview of the situation, the challenge or opportunity available in the situation, and finally, the action to be taken." Nick leaned over Dory's shoulder and watched as she wrote. Now they were getting somewhere. Dory was nice enough, but she talked a lot. "The Rune for Overview is the one that looks like a fish," Dory said. "It has the connotations of separation or loss, retreat or home, and of inheritance or real property. I know that sounds bizarre, but it makes sense if you read the entire description for the Rune." Dory wrote these words next to the symbol and the word Overview on the paper. "The second Rune for Challenge, the arrow, represents the Spiritual Warrior. The Spiritual Warrior must draw on his intestinal fortitude to fight his own demons. I doubt our killer is doing battle with himself," she added. "I guess not," said Tracy. "The last Rune for Action is for fertility, fertility as in pregnancy. Once you get to the end of the pregnancy, it is too late for regrets. It is an injunction to complete what has been started." Both detectives leaned in closer over the yellow legal pad as Dory wrote out her notes. Nick said slowly, "I don't think I like what I'm hearing." Dory leaned back in her chair and studied the pad of paper in her lap. "I think this is right. On the plus side, your guy is using the obvious interpretations. I don't think you have to go deeper with these. The negative is your result. Why did he kill this woman? The overview is that there has been some kind of loss, perhaps involving money or property. Maybe this guy feels he was screwed over or something was stolen from him. That's assuming his problems are material rather than metaphysical. Perhaps he is separated from or lost his home? Did she have an ex?" "No, dayshift informed her relatives and took their statements earlier this morning" said Tracy, "According to her family, she wasn't ever married. They don't believe she had been in a serious relationship for at least a year. Dory tapped her pencil on the pad and plunged on. "The Challenge Rune identifies the Spiritual Warrior, but he's not spiritual. He's committing murder, usurping God as it were. He thinks he's the Avenging Angel. The Action slot tells him to be diligent and finish what he has started." "Right, but was this his only project?" asked Nick. "I don't know," Dory answered. Neither detective made a comment. Dory ripped the page off the pad and handed it to Tracy. She stuffed it into her casebook. Nick heard a phone ring through someone's jacket. "That's mine," confessed Tracy, pulling out her phone and popping it open with a snap. "Vetter. What?" She stepped back away from Dory and Nick and turned to the wall, cupping her hand around the mouthpiece for privacy. Nick noticed as a faint flush rose in Tracy's cheeks. "No," Tracy was saying. "What are you talking about? Why should I do that?" Nick winced. He knew who must be on the other end. He would have to have another little chat with Vachon. Nick busied himself by feigning disinterest, trying not to eavesdrop. A second later, his phone rang. "You two are a regular Maxwell Smart and Agent 99," said Dory. "Thank goodness no one has tried to issue one of those things to me." Nick nodded agreement as he pressed his phone to his ear. He wasn't sure whether these things were a convenience or a curse. "Knight. Sure, just a minute." He helped himself to the pen in Dory's hand then leaned over and wrote an address on the pad in her lap, whispering "excuse me' and 'thanks' as he did. She pulled the paper off for him and he folded it in one hand, sticking it into the pocket of his jacket. "No, I've got it. We'll get right on it Cap. Trace," he said pocketing the phone and handing Dory her pen, "We have to go." Tracy glanced over her shoulder toward her partner, then spoke in a harsh whisper into her phone, her index finger to plugging her other ear. "I have to go. No. I'm not going to argue about this. Oh, all right already. Give it to me." Tracy went to Dory and took the pen that Nick had just returned to her. In large slap dash figures she wrote a series of numbers and letters onto the pad in Dory's lap. "Yeah, well, I will when I can. I have to go." Tracy pulled the paper from the pad and gave the pen back to Dory. "Thanks. I can't believe this," she muttered putting the note in her pocket. Dory appreciated her visitors with a generous grin, putting Nick in mind of a leprechaun. "Doesn't Homicide issue their detectives pens?" "No," said Nick, "just phones." "Speaking of which," said Dory, "maybe I'd better give you my numbers." Standing, she slapped her clothes until she noticed she wasn't wearing her jacket. She fished through the one hanging from the back of her chair, and found what she was looking for. She gave Nick her business card. "There, in case there's more, heaven forbid, you can call and tell me about it." Nick gave Dory his card and said, "We just got the second one already." "Already?" gasped Tracy. "My FAX is on there. If you like, just draw me a picture." Dory moved closer to Nick and tapped the card in his hand. She smiled broadly. "You'll need to find a pen." "Hey, Nick, I've got a pen somewhere. Let's go," said Tracy as she maneuvered him to the door. "I'll drop by tomorrow night and loan you my book and Rune set," added Dory. "Appreciate it," said Nick, returning Dory's smile. He watched her hand dart to her hair and suddenly realized that she was flirting with him. Outside the door, Tracy hit Nick in the arm. "Keep your mind on your job." "I didn't say anything. You're the one taking personal calls." Tracy bit her tongue. "I need some coffee. Let's go." Two other homicide detectives from another department had originally attended to the homicide at Yonge and Charles, but the MO unquestionably linked it to their Embrey case. The investigation was reassigned as soon as the detectives on the scene made the connection. The Embrey murder was sufficiently bizarre as to attract the attention of the other departments, the case particulars had been broadcast as quickly as the precinct phone lines could carry them. Nick and Tracy arrived at the scene in Nick's Series 62 Caddy, pulled into a no parking zone and parked at an obtuse angle. Tracy still seemed out of sorts. He was still overtired from skipping too many liquid lunches. Nick considered buying his partner a new coffee maker himself. "You know the difference between a dead snake and a dead lawyer?" asked Tracy disinterestedly as got out of the car. "This is not the time." "There will be skid marks in front of the snake," finished Tracy without waiting. "What is it with you and the bad jokes, lately?" questioned Nick. It was starting to get to him. It wasn't his imagination. She was developing some sort of perverse repertoire. "Learning new jokes is part of my assertiveness training class. It is supposed to help curb your resentment and improve your attitude." "You're a cop. You carry a gun, Trace. Why do you need an assertiveness training course?" "My parents are making me nuts." Tracy's father was, unfortunately for her, Police Commissioner Vetter. He was heavy handed when it came to his daughter's career and didn't know how to take no for an answer. Nick sympathized. He had the same problem with his 'father', LaCroix. "Fine, but work on your material, will you?" Nick and Tracy walked into the entrance of the street level lobby, into a small interior mall. To their far right Nick spotted the window labeled, "Two Bears & Gillespie, Attorneys". Tracy said, "That is supposed to be a law office?" Nick surveyed the names of the other tenants of the mall: a coffee shop, a photo developer, a hair salon, and a Chinese noodle shop. "Apparently." Inside, the office was an unremarkable. Low-grade beige carpeting thinly blanketed the interior. A single reception desk sat in view of four beige chairs. Nick assumed that the deceased lay behind the closed door in the middle. A sad-faced, blonde-haired young man occupied one of the chairs. Mounted prominently behind him was a classic work from The Starving Artists Beige Period. It was hardly appropriate for a law practice. It was more like a temporary office set for a television series. Nick noticed the hasty paint job. The previous color, orange, was visible in the corners and along several edges. The two detectives on the scene met Nick and Tracy in the reception area. Det. Angela Hammond and Det. Bernie Corrigan from the 96th greeted them as they came in. Hammond was a smart dressed black woman with smooth hair and a large smile. Her partner, Corrigan, was slovenly bald man, sporting unflattering onyx plastic eyeglasses. He offered a pasty white palm to Nick. "You recognized the M.O.," said Nick. "We heard. Guess how happy we are to turn this over to you." said Corrigan. "We appreciate your sympathy," said Tracy. "The least we could do." Nick said, "Who is the deceased, and tell me you found something incriminating." "The deceased is Jonathon Two Bears," said Hammond, referring to her notes. "Get this. There is no Gillespie. I bet he thought two names looked better on the door." Tracy said, "I wonder if he had to pay extra for the second name." All four glanced around quickly at the cheap carpeting, the cheap furniture, and the cheap paneling. Nick nor anyone else made further remark. None was needed. "According to the secretary," continued Hammond, "Two Bears called him around five this afternoon and informed him that he was out of a job. He was to come to the office and pick up his check." "That's him?" asked Nick, nodding toward the man in the reception area. The blonde man's shoulders drooped. He had turned his seat so his back was to the inner office door. "Yes," Hammond said. "Fasig is across the mall getting a cuppa, but he says it matches your Embrey case. He won't say more until the post mort." "That's all right," said Nick, "Nat'll do it. She's already working on the first victim. What is the secretary's name?" asked Nick. "Claude Thomas," said Corrigan. "Good luck. We can take care of sending him over to the 96th for his statement, if you like. That's what I recommend." Nick sat down next to the young man. His jeans were rumpled and so was his faded gray T-shirt. "Mr. Thomas, I'm Det. Knight and this is my partner, Det. Vetter, from Metro Homicide. We'll be working on your employer's case. How long were you in Mr. Two Bears employ?" "What?" "How long did you work for Mr. Two Bears?" "Two weeks." Nick exchanged a quick glance with his partner. This seemed to confirm his impression of the office. The entire set up felt wrong and therefore suspicious. The office was temporary, or worse, a sham. "How did you discover Mr. Two Bear's body?" Thomas sniffed and it was unclear whether this was because of the shock over the murder or the loss of his job. "I left work at two, when his last clients arrived. I had an appointment. Then he called me at home and told me I was fired." "What time was that?" "Dinnertime. I don't know, five or six?" Thomas squirmed in his chair as if his jeans were too tight. They certainly looked it to Nick. "I was upset. This was the best job I ever had. He said it was nothing personal. The business was closing." Thomas rubbed his eyes. Nick said, "Why did you come back tonight?" "He wanted me to pick up my money and said he would give me an extra three weeks pay." Nick said, "Did he tell you why the business was closing?" Thomas rolled his vacant blue eyes toward the ceiling. Awhile later he said, "I don't know." He pinched his brows together another moment, then spoke slowly as though he had trouble forming a sentence. "He didn't seem to have many clients. Today was the first time I saw any." "What sort of law did he practice?" "I don't know." Nick breathed deeply while Tracy took her notes. The absence of hard information was quite informative. "What were your duties here?" Thomas' face brightened. "I answered the phone, made appointments, and greeted clients at the door." Tracy asked snidely, "Did the phone ever ring?" There was a pause before Thomas admitted, "No, actually. No." "Any appointments? Any walk-ins?" "Not 'til today. I guess that's why he had to close down." "Names?" said Nick. "Can you describe them?" "Don't know their names. There were three of them. It was a mousy-looking guy and a woman wearing a lot of make up. And another guy with a Scottish accent, like the guy that played the father in that ax movie." Tracy volunteered, "I think that was Meyers playing his own father." "Really? That's pretty good. But this guy had dark hair and no glasses. And he walked funny, like he had rocks in his shoes." "So, you say Mr. Two Bears called you," said Nick. "He was really mad when I told him I wouldn't be here until ten. He said it was going to screw up his whole evening." Thomas' shoulders hunched forward. "He looked so dead. Am I in trouble, officer?" Nick patted the young man on the shoulder and gestured to the two uniforms lounging against the far wall. "These officers will follow you over to the precinct and you can make a full statement. Thanks for your cooperation." Nick and Tracy left Thomas in the care of the uniforms and accompanied Hammond and Corrigan through the rear door. The body lay in front of a desk and was a good foot longer than the cheap five-foot conference table. Like Embrey, his body was frozen in an excruciating contortion. Two Bear's small office contained a standard issue office desk, and matching chairs, all undoubtedly rented, of faux pickled oak finish. A laptop computer sat on the otherwise empty desk. The office was as bare as a car stripped and abandoned by the side of a road. The shelves held no books, the desk no papers, office stationary or personal effects. Even the wastebasket was missing, as if only the large furniture was left for the movers to load. "Hematite," said Hammond. "I see it everywhere. It must be common as dirt." Nick knelt by the body. If the man died between six and ten that night, then the rigor mortis was characteristically premature. It certainly indicated a poisoning similar to the Embrey case. The three silver gray stones over the head sealed the connection. Opening his notebook, he copied the Rune symbols down. The first stone on the left had two brackets, facing open to each other. The second looked like an upside down R. The third puzzled him, for it did not appear to have anything written on it. He took his pen and tipped the stone from side to side to double check. Blank. "This is so weird," said Hammond. "Did you get anything on the stones from the first scene?" "They're Runes," said Tracy. "Our killer is on a mission from God." "That can't be good," said Corrigan. "I'll tell you what we do know, Trace," said Nick. "Remember the tall, dark Native man in the photos? Apparently his name was Jonathan Two Bears, Attorney at Law." Nick gestured over the body in introduction. It was hard to recognize the face, but it was undoubtedly the man from the album. Tracy leaned over and peered into the distorted features of the victim. "Absolutely. We have to track down the rest of the people in the photographs before the killer gets to them," insisted Tracy. "We'll have to ask the Cap to get days to help comb through Embrey's files." "It just got easier." Nick snapped on a glove and tapped the touchpad on the desktop. The screen glowed dark blue. "We can start cross referencing Embrey's computer files with this one. With luck, Two Bears has an address book we can use. We'll call everyone our victims knew in common." Tracy came around and looked at the blank computer screen then down toward the body on the floor. "I wonder what the heck the killer is up to." Nick said, "He's picking them off, one by one." << ------- 9. Chapter Saffron Walden August 1572Z Jenny with her back to the kitchen door, held her pitcher of beer and listened to the conversation around the high table. She tried not to laugh outright. "John is well peeved and I understate it. I apologize, Father, that I was not here today. You might have put off some of the hard work until tomorrow. There was no reason to exhaust yourself." "I enjoyed myself. Are you thinking of putting me out to pasture? I shall not complain, boy, if, for the pleasure of our fair neighbors, I am to be offered up to improve the quality of their stock." The company at the high table joined in laughter. Mister Edmund's wife, Agnes, hid her face behind her hands in a sham of mortification. Jenny was glad that the mister and mistress were in good spirits now that their son, Jeffrey, had returned from Colchester. The strange gentleman who was their guest for the next fortnight, Monsieur de Brabant, leaned on his elbows and toyed with his knife. "Of course not," said Mister Jeffrey, "I just think it foolish." Again laughter. Jenny giggled, lifting the pitcher high to hide her face. "So now I am foolish and decrepit." Mister Jeffrey choked on the bird he had just put into his mouth. His mother shook a finger at him and encouraged mischievously, "Do not suffer this old braggart. We would not fetch one penny for his services." "Mistress, I beg to differ. Have you some complaint? Why speak you not sooner?" Mister Edmund opened his mouth and eyes wide exhibiting his shock and consternation to the assemblage with all the drama he could summon. "Aye, Sir, in these thirty-five years, there has not been in it a silence of sufficient length for me to make complaint." "Woman, I am wounded deep." Mister Jeffrey rapped his spoon on the table several times. "Father, be done with the endless wooing. You won the woman already. What of Skipwith?" Jenny imagined how the young mister would look on his upcoming wedding day. The Mister and Mistress' only living child was an attractive young man. He had his mother's green eyes and dark black hair, but his face was much like his father's. He was tall and shared the slender, sturdy figure of the Mister. He was like a brother to Jenny and she was glad he had come home. His face was slightly flushed from enjoying the lively company of his parents. "I thought he was content with his situation," continued Mister Jeffrey. "I thought as much. I am in no hurry to find another boy," responded a subdued Mister Edmund. "John is uncommon fond of him and I say if the boy were gone for good he might have said so to John. Let us wait and see whether he returns. I think he has taken a fancy to wander. I am told rambling about the country at odd hours is common to young men." He waved his spoon casually but directly toward his son. "Am I reprimanded, Sir?" "I am not an ogre." Master Edmund winked and stuffed a piece of boiled beef into his mouth. "I do not mind the reprimand, as long as I am not obstructed, Sir." Young Jeffrey frowned at the rapidly shrinking mound of boiled beef. "Will you leave nothing for me to eat?" Jenny settled her back snugly into the wall behind her and relaxed. For most of the meal, she had felt the French gentleman's attention as keenly as a warm fire. She kept her vigil by the door, waiting to be called on for more beer, or to be sent to the pantry for additional bread. Guests were special, so she wore her best dove gray dress, her hair parted in the center and hidden completely beneath her favorite linen cap. Jenny initially made an effort to ignore him, or to at least remain elegantly aloof. He was hard to ignore, as he was making an effort to catch her eye or at least it seemed such to her. Each time she lowered the serving pitcher, behind which she was giggling during the meal, his eyes awaited her. Their blue held her as gently as a hand beneath her chin. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that the man was a gentleman and she had experience with the attentions of gentlemen. Such were the attentions of various gentlemen that her Mistress felt obliged to provide a strong bar for her door. The last visiting scholar, clergy no less, had been so diligent at her heels that Skipwith was instructed to follow her about the grounds for protection. So it was with disdain, and ill-concealed superiority, that she had knocked upon Monsieur de Brabant's door that evening. She expected another poor and overstuffed example of the gentry, but was instead greeted by this astounding prince in black velvet. He had greeted her respectfully. His voice was as sweet as sap as she held up her candle to examine his face. She thought for a moment that her heart had forgotten to beat. Had he said something to her? She could not recall later what it had been. She called him to meat as directed and quickly excused herself. She knew his intentions. Jenny's thoughts wandered and she missed part of the conversation at table. Misters Edmund and Jeffrey were discussing the legal negotiations of his upcoming nuptials. Mon. de Brabant was nodding politely to her Mistress as she spoke of Jenny cared not what. Often his eyes returned to her, and each time they did, she suffered that same odd feeling as if her heart had stopped beating. She looked at the ceiling. She shook her head, no, to the pitcher in her hand rehearsing the rebuff she would give him. Jenny felt warm. She thought about things she had not thought about in a long time. She was an old woman, far past the age when girls with dowries and prospects were married. She knew the Mister and Mistress thought a match might be made between her and the absent Skipwith, but he had not interested her. He was not much of a young man, in her estimation. Old men had shown more energy pursuing her than the silly Skipwith. Instead, he had methodically and unknowingly, nightly swept the old barn floor and rearranged the hay where Jenny often kept company with another. Jenny pressed her chin to her chest remembering him. He had died of fever six months ago. Until tonight, she had not thought on how she missed his arms. She had only thought on her grief. The Mistress turned and smiled, indicating with her cup that she wanted more beer. Jenny stepped forward as grandly as possible, to pour out as her Mistress had instructed. Feeling she had done so with adequate success, she stepped back slightly and looked to see if any other required her service. Jeffrey nodded and she filled his cup. She circled the table until she came to the strange gentleman who had insisted that his room must be shuttered against the sunlight. Turning around toward her, he held up his cup to her. She stood still beside him for several moments, fixed to the spot. He spoke. His words drifted to her carried by a sweet, white vapor. It produced a distortion within her. She saw not but the flickering candles and his narrowed eyes. She thought she heard her own heart beating and then the chimera passed. Jenny looked at the cup again, still raised to her, and noticed it was full. He had needed no beer. Adding a few drops to his glass, she found herself rewarded with his smile. She was ashamed by how happy it made her feel. It was time for her to resume her post, but instead, she paused behind the blonde gentleman's chair. There was nothing to be gained by coveting the affections of his like. She could hope for nothing, except to die in childbirth. Or worse, she might not die in childbirth. If she had him, it would only be for sport. She could not suppose that he would treat her softly. The less her expectations, she fancied, the less her disappointment should he choose to abuse her or prove incompetent. She looked over his head, blindly for a moment, listening absently to the conversation. She had lived in this house longer than she could remember, working in the kitchen with the Mistress. She thought about the boy who had loved her and was so lately gone to God. She looked down at the man seated before her, genteelly pretending to ignore her presence behind him. She took the palm of her hand, and gently, covertly, laid it between his shoulder blades. Jenny felt him lean back into her hand, causing his skin to move beneath his dark doublet and shirt, noticed how his dark honey hair curled above his collar and brushed the tops of her fingertips. He did not move further; he did not breathe. She allowed her hand to linger, resisting the need to remove it as he continued to quietly accept her touch. Her silent invitation accepted, she lifted her hand, curling the fingers as she did, and returned to her place by the door. Her hand tingled with the memory of the soft fabric against her skin. "Nicholas, I am so gratified to find you in such high spirits. I suspect it is only temporary," Mister Edmund added, smiling and winking. He had had too much beer. "I suspect you are right, Sir, but after my weeks of hard travel, I enjoyed a good sleep. I could not help but improve given the disposition of my hosts." "To what disposition do you refer?" "Sir, I try to be charitable," said the Monsieur, raising his glass to the Mister. "You have been here but one night and one day, Sir, and you get on with us well." "As I feared." "So you should." Deliberately, Mister Edmund finished his cup. "It is late, Sir, for those who keep God's time and to God's schedule. Forthwith, the family is off to bed. Do you mind if I leave off and retire? As you heard, we misplaced our boy Skipwith and I worked with John all day." "Sir," interrupted Mister Jeffrey, "he tells you he is a tired old man and you must let us put him to bed before need be we put him in the grave." "Children are a burden," said his father. His round cheeks bulged as he smiled. "Do not concern yourselves," Monsieur said. "I have much to keep me occupied tonight and need not the additional burden of your company." Unfolding himself stiffly from his seat, Mister Edmund excused himself, aided by his solicitous son. Mistress Agnes accompanied Jenny and helped her put away the food and mess in the scullery. Her Mistress then escorted her guest about their larder. "I apologize for the poverty of my staff, but we keep a small household," said Mistress Agnes as she pushed Nicholas about the pantry. "There will be no one awake at night to serve you." "I have often suffered without a roof overhead. I am sure I can make due from your enviable larder." "It is a pity you arrived so late last night. We were unable to greet you properly or provide a proper welcome." "Tonight made up for any deficiencies you might imagine," he replied, smiling, but the mistress pressed on with her tour. "Promise me you will help yourself to whatever you need during the night. Just make sure you keep the doors shut tight when you come and go. The varmints are such a nuisance in the warm months." A short while later, she was gone after her husband. The French gentleman remained. He stood near the worktable, perhaps listening, while Jenny worked in the adjacent scullery. Her back pricked with her hyperawareness of his presence. She had at least an hour of work to finish before she would be free. Jenny heard the kitchen door open and looked up briefly as he stepped outside. She heard it close behind him. ----- >>> 10. Chapter "You people are unconscionable! I'll sue!" Stan Lemming stood before Don Westlake's desk, spastically shaking his white envelope full of worthless papers in Don's face, his upper lip quivering for all he was worth. "You'll sue on what grounds?" "You stole my money!" "I did?" Stan shook the envelope more frenetically and pieces of plain white typewriter paper fluttered onto Don's desk. "Look, nothing! Nothing! No contract, no deed, no money, nothing." Don feigned shock. "Are you saying they ripped you off?" He shuffled the useless papers into a stack and looked through them as if he cared. "You paid them for the Church and this is all they gave you? What happened to the documents? You had to have signed something." Stan popped up and down off the balls of his feet. "You know exactly what happened. That crooked lawyer, Two Bears, gave me a pile of blank paper. He switched the paperwork." "Two Bears? I can't believe this. He has an excellent reputation." "You're the one who recommended him." "No I didn't. You're confused." "That damn realtor, then. She said he could get the closing done fast. You're all in on this together. You're a bunch of crooks." "Really? Based on what evidence?" Don was beginning to tire of this conversation. Stan was not as much fun as he had hoped. "Explain how you all knew I'd bought the church last night." "Sarah called me to let me know The Grotto was a go. Pauly and I thought it would be a great idea to celebrate." "It was all a ruse to keep me from looking at my copies. You just wanted me out and drunk so you could get the cheque cashed." Don let his fake moustache droop and stuck his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. "We were just trying to oil up our new landlord. What are we supposed to do now? Who the hell were we negotiating with? Did this guy McGregor even own the property?" Stan threw the envelope at Don, who raised his arms just in time to avoid receiving a fatal paper cut. "You damn, lying pig! The property? You were all in on this together! I bet there never was any property or any club. If I ever find that ass McGregor I'll wring his rotten neck. I'll have that bloody realtor's license revoked." Stan's words tumbled out over his badly quivering lower lip. "He took my money! You get that piece of sewage over here." "Do you have the phone number?" "Yes, no! I called already. There is no phone and you know it. It's disconnected. You know where he is. Get him." "You were the one who did business with him. I had nothing to do with it. I'm just as screwed as you are. I've got no venue." "Get him over here you lying sack of crap. Give me my money. You did it, you and, and Pauly, and whoever, and I know it and you know it." Perspiration dripped from Stan's forehead and onto the blotter pad as he leaned over Don's desktop. "Listen to me you stupid S.O.B. I'll have you arrested." Playtime was over. Don stood and regarded his mark with all the warmth of a lime green chameleon. "Go ahead, Stan. You've got nothing. You've got no paperwork, no witnesses and no McGregor. You've got nothing but an empty bank account and the knowledge that you are a first class schmuck. If you hadn't been so anxious to screw over McGregor, you wouldn't have signed a batch of bogus paperwork so fast. Go ahead. Tell everyone what happened to you. I'm sure they'll be all ears." Stan blew. "Give me my money back before I break every bone in your body!" "Time to go home, Stan. Not another word." "Are you threatening me?" "You threatened me," said Don. "I swear, I'll make you pay you filthy bastard." "I won't be waiting." "Son of a....," fumed Stan. He reached over and picked up an armload of the papers on the desk and threw them into to the air and into Don's face. He reached under and lifted the entire desk up by several inches, letting it slam back to the floor. It was a cheap, insubstantial piece of furniture. Seemingly satisfied that his display would do a silverback gorilla proud, he stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him. The door failed to stay closed, so Stan spasmed back into the room, grabbed the knob and slammed it shut again. Don could her his stumbling footsteps retreat down the hall. Pauly and Sarah opened the door that separated the storeroom from the office and peeked in. "Coast clear, hon?" asked Sarah. "Don, you should strike your set before the Final Act and avoid all this nonsense. It is too risky. I think you actually enjoy the drama." "Somebody's got to." Don motioned for them to come in, sat down in his desk chair, kicking his feet like a kid. He knew he looked good doing it, too. He just had his red-blonde hair cut into a disheveled mop to enhance his Huckleberry features. Adopting his boyish face, the one he practiced at home in his mirror, he gave his visitors the full treatment, crinkling his eyes and winking. "Cut the crap," said Sarah. She tugged down the hem of her short, pink sheath. "I don't need any more theatrics from you, especially today." Stan dropped his act and said, "I think that is the last we'll see of old Stan-the-man." "I hate these scenes," said Pauly. "The stress is ruining my complexion." Don leaned back and toyed with the impotent papers on his desk. He loved Pauly and Sarah when he wasn't thinking of himself. Fifteen years ago they had come to Toronto, or rather Hollywood North, because it was the place to be for movies, television, musicals and plays. Don, Pauly and Sarah had done it all: casting calls, casting couches, dance lessons, diction lessons, and peanut butter on thrift shop bread for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They had traveled together, auditioned together, rehearsed together, and even shacked up in the same sorry low rent flat on Marion Avenue together. Work had been sparse, the pay inadequate, and the speaking parts non- existent. It had been Don's idea, initially, to turn their underappreciated talents into a far more lucrative pursuit. He dubbed their little troupe The Dark Trinity, for dramatic effect. Soon they embarked on a series of increasingly elaborate con games, scamming the unsuspecting into turning over their hard earned cash in exchange for nothing. Despite all the poor reviews they had previously received from agents and directors for their technique and execution, their scams went off with hardly a bad notice. The cons became riskier, the payoffs greater, and the fun of it more addictive. Those were the good old days and Don dreamed of writing a play about their adventures. He considered producing it himself for the Fringe of Toronto Festival. He would play the lead himself. Four years ago, the increasing complexity of their scams, required the addition of Ima and Jonathan. Both were accredited members of their advertised professions, but lacked the moral fiber to make an honest living. In particular, Ima had a real prejudice against paying taxes. Sarah met them one night at the Factory Theatre Lab where they were working as extras in an amateur production of Kismet. It turned out they all shared two things in common: a streak of larceny and season tickets to the same theatres. It was the ultimate in improvisational theater and Don could not be prouder of their little repertory troupe. They mounted new productions each season, dusting the best scams off every few years for a revival. All of the big cons had three common denominators: an invisible paper trail, an eccentric cast of characters, and evaporating sets. Ima screened and evaluated the potential victims, often making the initial contacts or acting as a peripheral consultant to the victim. After a big job like this one, Don insisted that everyone take a lengthy vacation. They never brought the victims within a mile of their permanent residences. Sometimes the victim tracked Don and Pauly down before they struck the sets, but in that case, they usually pleaded ignorance. In less risky scams, they were able to close two or three deals out of the same offices before striking a set. Stan had caught on quick. Usually their mark was still asleep or nursing a nasty hangover at this time of day. Don would have to remember to add sedatives to the prop list in order to knock the mark unconscious for an additional day or two. Sarah Limon, a fleshy and curvaceous woman who spilled delectable adipose from her dresses better than Marilyn Monroe in The Misfits, currently starred as The Real Estate Agent. She was sweet and rich as an oversized pastry, and just as bad for one's health. She always kissed him with pink lipstick and an open mouth. His other cohort, Pauly James, or Pauly Dee as her parents insisted upon calling her, was Sarah's opposite, eschewing earthy and overt for Erte and intrigue. She often appeared to be looking for an opportunity to declaim, "Time for my close up, Mr. DeMille!" Pauly's bobbed hair was parted down the middle and dyed bright purple, which was perfectly suited to her recent three-month engagement as The Ambitious Goth. She wore a classic Chanel(tm) dress and waved her cigarette holder evocatively, exhaling toward the ceiling. Don recognized her tribute to Audrey Hepburn's interpretation of Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany's. "Must you smoke?" said Don. "Yes," replied Pauly, tapping ash into the middle of Don's blotter. Don opened his desk drawer and tossed out an ashtray for Pauly to use. He found the smoking much more annoying now that she wouldn't sleep with him. "What are you two doing here anyway? You're supposed to be closing up your offices and exuenting from town. The theater is supposed to be dark until next month." Pauly took a long drag on her cigarette and glanced at his disconnected phone line and dead pager. "You haven't heard." "Heard what?" "Ima and Two Bears are dead." "What?" "Dead, honey," said Sarah pointedly, "they are both dead. Time to take the show on the road or we are going to be dead pretty soon ourselves." Her hand plucked mercilessly at her platinum curls. "When? How did this happen? You're not sure someone killed them," insisted Don. "I called Two Bears this morning and the police were at his house. " said Pauly. "I tracked down that ditz trophy secretary of his and he said Two Bears was murdered last night. Remember when Ima wasn't answering her phone when we called to schedule the Final Act?" Don squirmed in his chair. "She skips sometimes when her nieces are in town." Pauly's hand twiched as she removed the cigarette holder from her mouth. "We drove by her house and there was police tape and damn it, Don, Ima was murdered too." Pauly blew a large balloon of smoke into the air. "Calm down, it could be a coincidence." "Sarah and I are not as stupid as you. We just stopped by to say adios. Permanently." "Sarah, baby, Pauly, you can't mean it. Leave Toronto permanently? We can figure this out. We just have to think." "Sarah and I thought it might be fun to rekindle our love affair two years from now at Chateau Lake Louise at say," Pauly consulted her watch, "five oh five for a hot buttered rum." "If you must go, we can all go together. Why go without me?" "Sweetie, Pauly and I aren't going together, fool. We are taking a powder, see, and we're dodging the bullet, see, and maybe we'll be able to get the gang back together in two years, see." Don recognized Sarah's lines from her role as the third gangster moll on the left from the lamentable 1987 production of Stop or We'll Shoot. "Two years? I refuse." "Don, are we on the same page? Ima and Two Bears are dead. Dead, Don," emphasized Pauly. "They are not dead for dramatic effect, they are really, really dead. They weren't just written out of the series and out of a contract, they're dead. We'll be just as dead if we don't haul our butts out of town before someone shoots them off." Don rubbed his face with his hands. "How did anyone track us down? We closed our offices, we changed names, we changed houses, and we changed phone numbers. We are gone before anyone has time to work up to murder." Pauly leaned over the desk and blew smoke in Don's face. "It's easy to track people down if you're an obsessive homicidal maniac. You've seen that movie, too." "I didn't think of that," said Sarah. She jangled her bracelets. "We'll never get away from a psycho. We could give the police an anonymous tip." "We can't give them squat," said Don, defeated. "What are we going to say? Hey, we've scammed millions tax-free and now one of our marks wants to kill us? We can't give them names or anything." "Oh, they have the names," said Pauley. "They have Ima and J.T.'s computer files." "We are so screwed." Don banged his fist on the desktop, and the cheap rented unit rattled its creaky limbs. Fired up, he stood and started the serious work of pacing authoritatively. "They don't have the key to crack it though. It will be a month before they contact anyone we hit from the database. Sarah's right. This nutcase is going to track us wherever we go. We'll have to stop him ourselves." Pauley said, "What are you going to do, kill somebody?" Don rubbed his eyes and forehead. "Oh mother, I always thought I would stop short of murder." "How about Floyd last year?" suggested Sarah. "That wasn't our fault," said Don, "That was suicide." "Sweetie, you're a man of fine distinctions. I'll bet his relatives didn't make such distinctions," said Sarah. "Right!" said Pauly, "Put Floyd's family at the top of the list." "Man, it was only money," said Don, shaking his head. The remaining members of The Dark Trinity Repertory Troupe huddled around Don's desk, compiling a list of probable suspects from his laptop. When they were finished, Don wondered what the heck he would do next. 11. Chapter Nick sat in his kitchen chair wearing his black, silk pajamas. The rest of the room was dark. He couldn't see anything, and that struck him as odd. Usually, he could see quite clearly in the dark. Had Nat's ministrations finally borne fruit? Had he suddenly become mortal? He made an internal inventory. What did he want and how did he feel? He did not think he had changed, but something was definitely amiss. He looked around and saw nothing. What was wrong? It was something about the kitchen table. There was no kitchen table. It was missing. Where had it gone? He heard Tracy's voice chattering in his ear. What was she saying? The kitchen light switched on, and he saw that she was standing beside him. She was wearing a dark pink sweat suit with burgundy terry head and wristbands. A black hand towel hung over her right shoulder. "You can do it, Nick," she said and punched him hard in the shoulder. "We're all counting on ya." His partner jumped behind him and started massaging his shoulders vigorously, making his head bob up and down. "Trace, what the ...? and why did you hit me? Cut that out," he said, protesting to no effect. He was putting up his hands to stop her when, suddenly, he was hit in the face with a clipboard. "Let the lady in your corner do her job and quit squirming. It's unseemly." Natalie stood to his left, wearing a white sequin lab coat and wielding a clipboard. The sequins caused tiny stars to shoot and dart around her in the bright, condensed light. She was also wearing a very short skirt, very high heels, and very long hair. Her hair didn't reach her waist did it? He couldn't remember, but it didn't matter. This was his dream. Smack! The clipboard connected with his forehead a second time. "Focus!" she said. "I'm not going to soft sell you on this one, babe. According to my calculations," she said, referring to the infernal clipboard, "this will be a long fight, maybe 10, 12 or more rounds. But you can do it! Patience, and perseverance are key. You've got to focus, focus, focus. " Nat punctuated each word by thumping him on the shoulder with her fist. "Keep moving; be flexible. Adapt to your opponent's every move." "Stop hitting me with that clipboard! Tracy enough!" stammered Nick, flailing at the inexhaustible Vetter. "You aren't making any sense." "You never listen to me, do you?" said Nat dryly. She whacked him in the head again. "I'm not going to spend forever arguing with you. I'm not getting any younger standing here, and you're not getting any older." She smacked him again. "If you plan to win this one, you've got to pay attention. Learn from your experience. Adjust your strategy. You can win, Nick, you just have to keep on swinging." She took another swipe at him with the Clipboard from Hell, but he ducked. "Ha! You missed," he said, triumphant at last. "Oooooh," cooed Nat seductively. "You are sooo cute." Sitting down in his lap, she gave him a kiss worth at least $25 on Jarvis, according to his connections in Vice. "How badly do you want me?" Oh, this was his dream, after all. He was beginning to have doubts. She kissed him again. "Do you feel the goodness in me, Nichola? How badly do you want me?" "Natalie," he said, "you have to ask?" Nat threw her hands in the air and hopped off his lap. Tracy rolled her eyes. Nick was regretting with all his heart and mind that he had not said something more substantial when he heard a familiar voice. "Howdy pardner." "Schanke!" It was Nick's old partner, Don Schanke, who had died some months ago in a plane crash. Nick was so glad to see him, he rose to throw a bear hug around him. His new partner shoved him back in his chair. "Sit. Good boy," she said, patting him on the head. Dandy Don was in full glory wearing a cowboy hat, 6 shooter, and orange hip waders. He sauntered up to Nick while munching philosophically on a donut. "Ladies," he said, tipping his hat, "is there a problem here?" "His head is full of cement," said Nat. "Look." She cracked Nick again with the cursed clipboard, then gestured at his noggin with it. "See what I mean. Cement. Nothing in there but cement and mortar and bricks and rocks." "Man oh man oh man," tsked Don, shaking his head and pulling a notepad and pen from his shirt pocket. He flung the donut over Nick's head. It made a messy, jelly splat, then oozed down the wall into Nick's sink. "Hey, that's my kitchen!" Nick eyed the notepad suspiciously. "Am I in trouble? Are you giving me a ticket, officer?" Don tipped back the brim of his hat with the end of his pen and sneered at his ex-partner superiorally. "That's Sheriff Schanke to you, Mr. Klewless Hombre. And no, this here's not a ticket. It is your life story, installment part 122881 point 4165554762 divide by pi 19921989 star date 16596, and from what I can see, you are still up to your gilded keister in cow cookies, cowboy." Schanke snapped his suspenders and added, "That's why I'm wearing my hip waders." Schanke faded back into the shadows. Tracy's bright, perky face snapped into view. "Open wide," she commanded sweetly. "Wider, wider, wider for the choo choo," and Nick's eyes glowed and his fangs dropped into place. "Now BITE!" and as he did she shoved a plastic mouthpiece between his teeth. Tracy and Nat roughly hauled Nick out of his seat and shoved him forward into the darkness, where he stood chewing on the plastic in confusion. Spotlights fired on, illuminating the entire first floor of his loft. He wondered briefly where his furniture had gone. Where was his piano and candles? Where was the refrigerator? He needed a drink. "The magnificent pugilistic struggle resumes, and our ancient combatants do joust once more in an honorable and time-hallowed display of pageantry and carnage, spectacle and brutality, pomp and pummeling, grandeur and gore. Join us now, gentle listeners of CERK, that is CERK, home of your friend the Night Crawler, as our two noble, albeit moldy, heroes swagger into the ring to bloody and dismember each other for your amusement." "Aaahwaah," complained Nick, then spitting the mouthpiece into his hand, he said in disgust, "LaCroix. That was awful." LaCroix shrugged and looked toward the ceiling. He sported a black and white referee shirt, black trousers and white, blinding white tennis shoes. A large whistle hung from his neck, and he was sipping syrupy cranberry juice delicately from Waterford crystal. "I just discovered that my word processor has a thesaurus." Down from above, a large microphone slid, like a spider down it's silk, and stopped before LaCroix's face. He grabbed Nick's wrist and held it aloft, speaking energetically over the loudspeaker, his voice echoing into the empty space of the loft. "In this corner, standing 5'11'' and weighing 170 pounds, in his seven hundred and sixty second consecutive fight, and still not the champion, representing the forces of goodness and light, The," LaCroix eyed his protégé's pajamas, "Black Silk Pimpernel!" "Go! Go! Go!" yelled Tracy like a demented cheerleader. LaCroix dropped Nick's hand, as if it were something tainted, and waved toward the darkness. "And in this corner, standing 5'11'' and weighing 170 pounds, wearing a lovely leather ensemble and silver belt buckle, an exquisite moniker, and a visage so likely to curdle the blood of all who dare look at it without benefit of sunglasses, that he is required by WWF regulations to conceal his face, the challenger, The Masked Tres Feroc ces Soldat!" Nick watched, fascinated, as the hooded figure approached. It stopped and stood before him as inscrutable as the Minator. Was that his leather jacket the guy was wearing? "I'm supposed to fight this?" "Queensbury rules apply, unless you decide to disregard them entirely. No hitting or biting below the belt. Should one fighter become injured, the fight will be stopped at the discretion of the referee. Or not." Nick's master covered the microphone and whispered conspiratorially, "Frankly, what the crowd wants is bloodshed. Don't disappoint me, boy, give them what they want, what you want." "May he take off the mask?" LaCroix's lip curled, revealing the sharp edges of his teeth. "The management has requested that the 'frightening visage' be kept under wraps. Also, if you are introduced properly, you will be tempted to show mercy and our audience will be disappointed. There is nothing I can do." LaCroix blew on the whistle, and it made Nick jump it was so jarring. "I can't fight him. I don't even know this man's name." "What is wrong with you? Must you always be so difficult? No one else cares, why do you?" LaCroix blew the harsh whistle again, directly into Nick's sensitive ear. "I'm betting on the Masked Soldat. I had to go with the odds." "Whom am I fighting?" "Fight or no, it makes no difference. He will fight you whether you resist or not." LaCroix again blew the whistle, and it rang like an obscenely loud telephone bell. "Begin. En-garde. Engage. Commence. Charge. Have at." "Nooo!" Frightened and outraged, Nick reached forward and yanked the hood from his opponent's head. And uncovered his own face. The whistles rang, the bells screeched, he bolted upright out of his dream and heard his phone ringing and the answering machine picking up the call. "Hello, you've reached Nick Knight. I'm either in bed or incommunicado. Leave a message if you want." Nick staggered, disoriented, toward the machine. His voice was slurred as he spoke to it. "I'm either inbred or incognito." He heard Nat's voice, but had not the fortitude to deal with her so early in the evening. "Nick? Aren't you awake yet?" came her chipper voice. "There is no reason for you or Trace to come by the morgue, you already missed the postmort. Reese pushed them to do it on dayshift. I'll stop by work with those reports, aaaand I have a present for you. It's a brand new formula. Stay out of the refrigerator! You are a grown man, after all, and it is time you were weaned off the bottle." Nick leaned over the contraption and hung his head wearily. "I'm either incoherent or incorrigible." He padded barefoot over to the refrigerator, against doctor's orders, and peered inside saying to himself, "I'm either unfed or irrepressible." He pulled out a bottle and extracted the cork tossing it, for a change, into a wastebasket. Nat was right, drinking blood brought out the worst in him, even cow blood. He could feel the feral urge twist his mouth in anticipation of the thin, bland liquid. This is why he did not pack his lunch. He tried to feed at the loft so he had time to shake off the animal before work. He took a deep swallow, neatly emptying the entire bottle. "I'm either inconvenient or inoperable." 12. Chapter "Vachon, Vachon!" From the depths of his breathless sleep, he heard her voice. It came from far away, along a measureless black tunnel until it reached him where he lay alone at its termination. "The sun is setting already. Time for you to get up and do whatever it is you do." Within the shadowless void, he was suddenly aware. He felt his body shaken roughly by firm hands. Her voice called louder, "Javier!" There was flurry of fabric and noise and panic until Tracy was gripped and pinned against a wall, his fangs drawn inches from her throat. Choked by the pressure of his arm across her chest and neck, a small, dry, pathetic noise escaped from Tracy's lips. Stuporous, Vachon slowly recognized the blonde woman. He blinked at her several times until his mind caught up with his reflexes. Releasing her abruptly, he threw himself back from her. "What were you thinking? I nearly killed you!" Vachon paced back and forth, shaking a wordless hand at his visitor. He was usually soft-spoken around her and realized this must have frightened her as much as her near brush with exsanguination. He had frightened himself. She recovered quickly though, restoring Vachon's faith in her ability to overlook the serious nature of his most obvious fault. "Really," she said stiffly, her jaw twitching perceptively, "this is no way to greet a visitor. Where are your manners?" Vachon, amused, infuriated, and flabbergasted, still wanted to kill her and she had no clue. He could almost taste her blood in his mouth and imagined it pumping into his veins. The intense desire made his hands tremble. He strode farther across the room, past the broken pews, and addressed her from a safe distance. Safer for her. "You have to be more careful," he said softly. "Never, ever accost a sleeping vampire." "Sorry, I didn't get a copy of the rule book," retorted Tracy. "Who knew you were so touchy." "I am not touchy." "Whatever. Let sleeping vampires lie. Got it." Tracy dusted and searched her clothes. She shrugged and stamped until she had recovered some of her bruised dignity. "Touchy," she repeated. Exasperated, Vachon walked back and took her by the shoulders, pushing down the renewed urge to puncture her neck. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear before, but I sleep like the dead. I didn't recognize you." "You didn't have to attack me." "My instinct is to attack." "Then lock your door." "I don't care to live in an armed camp." "You mean like Nick." "What?" She wasn't supposed to know about Nick. Did she suspect? "You remember Nick, my partner? He lives in that fortified loft in no man's land as if he's afraid of people. He is so," Tracy wrinkled her nose, "odd. So why don't you lock yourself in at night?" "I just don't." "You don't why? You can't afford a lock? You don't have the money?" "You ask too many questions." "Why? Do you have any money? I'm curious." "I have money." But he didn't have any interest in setting up a permanent residence. He had been traveling light for years and he preferred it that way. Possessions were a burden, unless they were motorcycles. "How much and where did you get it?" "Trace," he said softly. Taking her face in his hand, he pushed her gently back against the wall and kissed her softly on the mouth. He knew it was a mistake, but he was unable to think of another response to shut her up. It was a friendly kiss, but he was not her friend. "Enough. Why are you here?" He watched her reaction with satisfaction, felt a smile deepen in his face as she stammered. "Because. Because I came to tell you, I can't run license plates for you. It's a privacy thing. It's not right." "Right compared to what?" "I can't use the department for your personal grievances." "This is important, Trace." "Is it a matter of life and death?" "Maybe." "I have to go to work now. I just wanted." She stopped talking and looked at him. He already knew what she wanted, and there was no way he could give it to her. Instead she visited. He pretended she was a vampire so he would not kill her and she pretended he was human so she wouldn't be afraid. How long could this convenient delusion hold up? "I wanted to tell you 'no' in person," she continued. "I thought you'd be upset." She sidled out of his arms. "You'll have to track your driver down some other way. You won't do anything awful will you?" she asked. Tilting his head, Vachon gave her a look designed to express the possibility that he just might do something awful, hoping she would feel guilty enough to look up the plates. Abruptly, he said, "Maybe." She did not take the bait. She frowned at him as though he was a recalcitrant child and headed up the stairs. He heard her murmur under her breath as though she was trying to stifle the words, "Vampires probably make all their deposits at the blood bank." He heard the heavy oak door close behind her. Vachon sat down heavily on the hard-worn planks of his staircase. She would drive him to an early grave yet. He laughed. 13. Chapter Nick looked forlornly at the stack of papers deposited on his desk. Tracy sat across from him at her station twirling a pen in her hands. At least two detectives per shift had been assigned to the case due to the urgency of contacting the people in the photographs, but it hadn't helped. Officers sent to the family of Embrey, discovered nothing. Her family was unfamiliar with the company she kept. Neither had anyone contacted the station inquiring after the other victim, Two Bears. His only known connections were Thomas and Embrey, one clueless and the other dead. Reese said he would go public in 10 hours if nothing turned up, rather than risk more lives. Tracy whiffled papers listlessly, muttering, "Ima Embrey," under her breath. She groaned and put her head on her desk. "Are you okay Trace?" Nick asked. "I need coffee." "Go ahead, it's killing you. Say it." Tracy propped her head up and said, "Do you know the name of my accountant?" "What?" "It's Ima Embezzler." "That joke is older than I am." "Make it stop, Nick." "I would if I could. Where shall we start? Did we get any matches from days?" "Nope, nope. No, Saved! Mel, what did you find?"" Tracy waved briskly, and Nick spotted the tall red-haired officer from Computer Opts rounding the corner of the partition. She carried a thick brown folder under her arm. She said, "Here it is boys and girls, all the matches from the downloads. Everything is here including addresses and phone numbers. I hope your perp is one of them." "How many?" asked Nick cautiously. "Five hundred, give or take a few." The pen Nick was holding up drooped to the desk, limp. "Five hundred? What sort of database was it?" "Financial mostly," said Mel. "They had quite an archive of people listing information about their financial status." Tracy pulled the brown folder in front of her. "Tax records?" "Not at all," said Mel. "For the most part, they're financial profiles of individuals. They don't appear to be clients of Embrey's, but we could be wrong. There isn't any supporting data in the system." Tracy opened the folder and pulled one of the papers inside. "What is this then? Was she a financial consultant?" "Doesn't appear that way," said Mel. "The lawyer wasn't operating any sort of a law practice at all. All he had were a bunch of templates for real estate sales, titles, and closings. There were no records of any transactions." Nick decided to cut his losses. "Forget the five hundred names in the database. Was there a private address book?" "Yes," said Tracy. "What we really need are matches on the people in the photographs." Mel laughed. "You'll be happy to hear they only had 9 matches between them from the private address books and speed dials." "Great," said Tracy. Mel shook her head. "Neither Embrey nor Two Bears appeared anywhere in each other's records and there wasn't a single private number in the batch. The matches were all for pizza and take-out." "What is it with these people?" Tracy asked. "Is it some sort of secret club?" Mel indicated the lists, "Secret because they are up to something illegal, I'll bet." "Real estate contracts?" Nick said, taking the folder and scanning the list of names. "The Runes from Embrey's homicide indicated loss and real property. Two Bear's office was obviously a temporary location." "That fits," said Tracy. "The lawyer's office was a sham. He was closing it up when he was murdered. It's some sort of real estate swindle, and the templates were for generating fake paperwork." Nick tossed the folder back down. It was next to worthless. "These are potential marks they're researching. I'm guessing the people they've already swindled have been purged from this list. They don't keep each other's phone numbers and they aren't going to keep a tidy list of their victims for us." "Sorry to bear bad news," said Mel. "There might be some sort of encryption marking the files you need. We'll look, but don't expect anything soon. Not this week." "Give it a try," said Nick. "They must keep a record of their marks somewhere to avoid hitting the same person twice." Mel tapped the folder as if to say, all yours, and left the detectives alone with the files. "The Runes were definitely a message," said Tracy. "We'll have to start running down these names whether we like the odds or not. Fraud might recognize these people." "Showing the picture to delivery boys is not much of a lead," said Nick. "But you'll do it anyway." "You can follow up with Fraud. Our perp can't be the first one to complain." Nick slapped his desktop in frustration. He stood and looked over the bullpen. Everyone seemed to be busy working and here he stood with a big stack of meaningless papers to go through. He considered skipping it. The end result would be the same whether he made an effort or not. By the time they slogged through the printouts, all the people in the photograph would be dead. From the corner of his eye, he detected Nat coming through the glass partition and into the precinct. Dory was close behind her. He pulled up a seat for each of them from another desk. "I expected you sooner." "Why so glum?" Nat tossed another folder on Nick's desk and deposited a fabric grocery bag in his lap. "The groceries I promised you," she said, studying his face and frowning. "You don't look hungry." Dory waved a small gray book and shook a little gray bag at the detectives as she sat down. "I brought presents for you." "It was strychnine," said Nat succinctly, "for both the lawyer and the accountant. It wasn't any of the rodenticide wannabes either, but the real thing. I'm sorry it was scheduled when you were off duty, but when the second body turned up, it was put ahead of the less notorious cases. Reese made it top priority, so you have some labs from the second homicide along with the entire postmort on the first." Natalie opened the report folder and pointed. "Here's a copy of the pertinent labs for Two Bears on top. The rest is your report on Embrey." Nick opened the folder as she continued. "The accountant died on an almost empty stomach: chocolate, cherries, wine, strychnine. Not a good choice for a late night snack." "I guess not," said Tracy. "There was no trace of poison in the wine glass at the first scene, so we think the killer put the poison in chocolate, fed it to her, then took the chocolates with him. I don't have a confirmation on its ingestion by your second victim. This is the quickie report; we knew what we were looking for before we started." "Chocolates? " said Tracy. "How do you put strychnine in chocolate?" "Chocolate covered cherries, actually. The killer must inject it into the candy." "Where does a person get strychnine? Rat poison?" "Actually," said Nick, "most over the counter rat poison is a warfarin type substance. The rats bleed to death." Tracy made a face. "Where on earth do you learn that stuff? Do you watch a lot of Jeopardy?" "I asked around. It is hard to find," said Nat, "but not that hard." "Speaking of poison, what is this you brought me?" said Nick. "Quit sniveling, it is not as vile as you think. If we are going to help you get over your, uh," Natalie glanced at Tracy as she said, "sun allergy, you have to try every option. I think you'll like this one." "Do you know how many psychiatrists it takes to change a light bulb?" asked Tracy. "Just ignore her," said Nick. "One, but the light bulb really has to want to change. Sorry." "I've got things to do," said Dory. "Do you mind? I'd like to get my magic show started. I have the blurb on the three stones you sent me last night. Did you get anything out of the first casting?" "We think the victims are running a real estate scam and our perp was one of their victims," said Tracy. "Interesting. I brought the book. It's simple, but I'll show you how. Dr. Lambert, are you joining us?" Nat pulled her chair closer. "In the interest of science, of course." "All right. This is a kit you can buy with the Runes and instructions by a guy named Blum." Dory set the book on Nick's desktop. "We'll start with something simple. Everyone draw one Rune. Tracy?" Nick had been studying the gray book Dory had handed him, but looked up as he felt the linoleum vibrate beneath his feet. Capt. Reese had apparently noticed the card party at Nick's and Tracy's desks and come to investigate. "Aren't you supposed to be working on a case?" He was a large heavyset black man, inured by years of experience on the force and in the military. At the same time, Reese always appeared to be confounded and surprised by the inhumanity of human beings. He had a number of pet names for the criminal types whose histories regularly crossed his desk. Psychos. Nutcases. Crackpots. "What is all this?" asked Reese. "Capt. Reese? Dory Parker from Documents. You spoke with me on the phone two nights ago." "Of course. Nice to meet you." Reese still looked doubtful. "I'm getting tired of asking. What are you doing?" "I'm showing them how to read Runes." "Yes Captain, we did actually learn something about our perp from them. Dory is loaning her set to us," said Tracy. "Right, the Runes. As long as you're working on the case, fine, but don't spend all night on mumbo jumbo. Mumbo jumbo doesn't kill people; people kill people." Nick expected this reaction from his Captain. Reese frequently expressed reservations when police work did not seem to be proceeding according to Hoyle. He did appreciate results and customarily gave his detectives plenty of rope, but not enough that they should hang themselves. "Why don't you draw one, Captain?" Nick was too late to stop her. Nat and Tracy's mouths opened soundlessly. No one had anticipated Dory was fool enough to ask Reese to do something para abnormal as he called it. To Nick's surprise, Reese hesitated only a moment, then said "Oh, what the hell," and reached into the bag. "Okay, just open your hand and show it to me. If the side is blank, turn it over for me." The Captain opened his hand for Dory. The Rune stone was a small flattened white clay piece with a symbol similar to a capital letter F imprinted into its center. "That is the Rune for possessions, nourishment, and cattle," said Dory, taking the Rune. "This Rune signifies fulfillment, of love shared, and ambitions satisfied. You should be a happy camper." Reese was unresponsive. "That's it?" "Sure." Reese grimaced. "I've got work to do." Nick felt a twinge as he watched the happily married family man and newly appointed precinct Captain lumber back to his office. Dory dropped the Rune piece back into the bag. "Next? Tracy? Actually, you should ask a question. Something you're concerned about or a situation into which you need insight." Tracy smiled like a schoolgirl and stuck her hand in the bag. She pulled the stone and quickly showed it to Dory. It looked like the letter Z. "What does it say?" "It is the Rune for defense. It means you have the strength and the ability to avert difficulty, but you have to pay attention. Look before you leap and consider the consequences of what you're doing. Are you doing the smart thing or indulging in wishful thinking?" "You could say that to anyone," said Nick scornfully. "There are only 25 Runes in the bag so you'll get the same answer to different questions. It is supposed to make you think; it isn't magic. It might be an answer, or it might be saying something about Tracy's character that she needs to address. Only Tracy can say if it was relevant." Tracy, pushed the stone away from her and looked away. Dory took the stone and grinned. "I think the surest sign that you pulled the right stone is that you don't like the answer. Dr. Lambert?" Nat's eyes were fixed on Tracy as she held back her hand. Nick also realized that Tracy must have asked about Vachon. Nick began to think Nat might not pull a stone. Then she seemed to recover herself. She was a scientist, after all, thought Nick. She had often chastised him for relying on hocus pocus for a cure. She rubbed her hand off on the side of her skirt, reached into the bag and pulled out a stone. It was a letter X. "That is the Rune for partnership. In any relationship between two people, whether it is easy or difficult, a loving or a business type relationship, there is an opportunity for both to learn. The Rune puts you on notice that you are part of an important partnership now. In order for it to work, the partnership must be equal. Also there's that wherever two or more are gathered connotation. That wasn't terribly profound, but did that answer your question?" Nat gave Dory back the stone and said flatly, "Nick, your turn." Nick crossed his arms firmly and sat back in his chair with every intention of being uncooperative. He thought about a woman he had met in Wales several years before he was brought across. Circumstances compelled her to ask for stones to be cast. The stones had forecast her early death. His casting had promised him a long, long life, but an unhappy one. For eight hundred years the predictions and their accuracy had haunted him. He did not want to reach into the bag for fear of finding another eight hundred years. He could not do it. "Nick, your turn," Nat repeated. She was determined, but he did not want to draw a stone. "Do it. It's an experiment." "Let's move on." "Draw a stone." He could not turn her down. Tentatively, he reached into the bag and selected a stone. His hand remained closed around the Rune, an unreasonable dread overwhelming him. He felt blood sweat forming along the back of his neck. He opened his hand. They're just manufactured pieces. There is no magic in them. He was surprised by how shaky he felt. He tried to ignore what Dory was saying to him, to block it out. "This is the Rune for standstill, withdrawal, and ice. You are experiencing winter in your spiritual and personal life, but stagnation should not be looked upon as failure. Winter has its purpose, too. Time is for healing and spring always comes." Nick looked at the faces around him, his relief filling his chest with cool air. He tossed the stone back on the desk as if throwing away a piece of rubbish. Reese, Trace, and Nat had just been a coincidence. The Runes weren't prophetic. He saw his way out. He said, "Spring always comes, does it? How long does one have to wait for spring?" "I don't know," said Dory. "Healing takes time and Einstein says time is an illusion." Nick's cool mood turned cold. "If healing requires waiting then the waiting room is hell." "For you it is always winter and never spring?" A joke. She was making a joke from a children's story. He turned on her the full heat of his anger and read its impact on her face. Dory caught her breath and her smile faded, replaced by a puzzled expression. How long would his winter last? How long must he fail in his effort to become mortal? Nothing he did ever made any difference. Over the years he had been angry, discouraged, drunk, bullheaded, irrational, and impatient. He had been exhilarated by each minor success and devastated by each setback. His greatest hope so far lay in Nat's concerned hands. Still, he had often been ready to run and move on again. He could not face it if, with scientific accuracy, Nat determined his dream was impossible. He needed his delusion. Running was the only option of which he was certain, his ability to find a new life to distract him from his essential problem and the improbability of finding a solution. He might debate and play and flirt with the idea of putting an end to his unnatural life, but he had always pulled back from the brink, unwilling to abandon faith completely. But all his exertions had come to nothing. He was exactly where he had started eight hundred years ago. His regrets were deeper and more inaccessible than Nat could imagine. He must have been different before he became a vampire, better, nobler. That man, however, was long gone, a victim of experience. Nick felt the weight of their uncomfortable silence. He watched Tracey shift in her chair. Nat's gaze was directed firmly on her twisting, entwined fingers. Finally, Nick turned back to Dory and said, with a cut of sarcasm, "Aslan has yet to make his appearance." Dory responded with a half-formed laugh. "I thought, for a moment there, that you'd lost your sense of humor." "Not quite. If you only knew how funny this really is." Nick crossed his arms again. He would get past this. He'd survive. He always did. "I gather you didn't like your Rune," said Dory, gingerly picking up Nick's discarded stone and placing it back in the bag. "Shall we go on to the three Rune casting your perp uses. Tell you what, Nick, how about you draw three more stones to explain the first one. Go ahead. Be a glutton for punishment." She shook the bag at him. Defiant, Nick quickly drew three more stones and laid them, click, click, click, on the desktop. From right to left, the three stones were an upside-down angular letter P, an M and a crooked H. "This should be an explanation of your first Rune." Dory plunged in. "The first for the Overview is the Rune for joy, light, and the fruit bearing branch. But it is reversed." Nick shifted slightly, but gave no other reaction. Dory continued. "This Rune reminds you that birth is a long and arduous process. Everything in life is a difficult test. Success comes after a period of labor. It takes time. I'm paraphrasing from the book, but that is how you do it. Just glance over the text. See," Dory held the page open for Tracy, "go ahead and read what is in front of you." "Oh," said Tracy. "This is easy, I think." "The second Rune is the challenge you've taken on," said Dory. "It is for movement, transition, and the horse. You improve through gradual development and steady progress. You wear many different hats in life and play many different roles and you learn from each experience." Tracy broke in and said, "I don't get this, what does this mean, 'sharing is significant since it relates to the sun's power to foster life and illuminate all things with its light.' How does that relate to the horse thing?" "How does it relate to me?" said Nick. "That's all right Tracy." Dory took the book back from Tracy gingerly. He heard her speak quietly and directly to him, as if trying to soothe an angry child. "You skipped a lot. He uses an analogy of a horse and rider. Even if the rider falls asleep at the wheel, the horse will find its way home. Nick here, is supposed to have the same trust, that he will find his way home without conscious effort. From his position of trust and safety, he should be moved to share his 'light', so to speak, with others." "It was easier when you did it," said Tracy. Dory said, "Since the first Rune was speaking of the difficulty of achieving a goal, the Challenge Rune is probably emphasizing trust in the process. You have to link the stones in order." Tracy raised an eybrow. "Nick, maybe you should try this." Nat wet her lips as if she was parched with thirst. "Go ahead. It might make more sense." Nick knew it made perfect sense to Nat and that her guts were churning on his behalf. He accepted the book from Tracy. The cover was soft as if of worn fabric. He consulted the index on the inside cover and turned to the page with the third Rune. "Disruption, Elemental Power, Hail?" "Your Action Rune says what then?" Dory asked. Nick read verbatim. "'Change, freedom, invention, liberation, pressing need from within to break free from constricting identification with material reality and to experience the world of the archetypal mind. You are coming to your senses as if emerging from a deep sleep, a ripping away of security and previous belief systems.' I don't get it." "Time for the final exam, Nick. Together, what do the Runes tell you for Overview, Challenge and Action?" Tracy and Natalie responded to Dory as if she were their grade school teacher and they were students who had not been paying attention and did not want to be called on to answer a question. Nick chose not to raise his hand, either. "Oh, for heaven's sake, you're not even going to try?" Dory pointed to each stone in turn as she spoke, covering each point systematically. "Things are slow to develop, but for all people, experience is your teacher for the express purpose of improving your soul. What you think is a reward is not necessarily a reward, and what you think is a failure is not necessarily a failure. Trust in the process, trust in its timely progression. "You're taking the hard road," Dory said, pointing to the horse Rune, "a difficult road, difficult in proportion to the lesson you need to learn." She pointed to the last Rune. "Accept the frustration; accept the disruption. It is meant to force you to accept a new paradigm. I threw in the Rune you drew before with that interpretation and I was able to work in the word 'paradigm'." Dory laughed, but she was the only one who did. Tracy still looked confused and stared at the Runes. Nick and Nat sat as still as statues. "Make sense? Any sense at all?" Dory patted the desktop gently with both hands encouraging a response from her audience. For the first time since he'd met her, Dory seemed to be at a loss for words. "All good things come to those who wait and suffer," said Nick. "I think it means that desperation is the mother of reinvention," said Dory. "Don't work too hard at this or you'll just confuse yourselves. You're still free to call me. I brought my notes on the Rune layout you sent yesterday. Ready?" "Shoot," said Tracy. Nick put his elbows on his desk, leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. "The first was the blank Rune," said Dory, "which is for the Unknowable, the Divine Messenger, or renewal represented by actual or spiritual death. The second was the Rune for journey, communication and joy, but it is reversed. It asks one to be particularly attentive to personal relationships, as ruptures are likely. The Action Rune is for harvest, indicating that a full season is required to complete a project." Dory shook her head. Nick tried to pay attention. It mattered to the case. "You think the perp was swindled by the victims? I'd say he used the blank Rune for any or all three reasons. With the Blank Rune, he may be reminding you that he is the unknown, of death, or that he thinks his actions are an expression of divine justice. The second is obvious since we know he was swindled. A good con involves a violation of a personal trust, a rupture of sorts." "The con artists have to be the lowest," said Tracy. "Murderers are crazy, but the con artists are ruthless. People are left so ashamed that they won't report the crime. I don't know how they sleep at night." Natalie nodded, "It is so calculated." "We're off topic," said Nick. "Right," said Dory, finding her place in her notes again. "The Harvest Rune is likely his way of saying the victims are reaping what they sowed and he is, I hesitate to say this, the Grim Reaper. That's my take on it." "I don't suppose the Runes say whether he'll kill again?" asked Tracy. "Will we catch him first?" "Let's ask. Upright for yes you'll catch him first and reversed for no." Dory plucked a stone out of the bag and slapped it on the desk. "Reversed." "Great," said Tracy sourly. "You've a fifty fifty shot at this being wrong," said Dory. "That doesn't mean anything," said Nick. He dropped his hands to his desk. He felt very tired. "You didn't pull a Rune," said Tracy to Dory. "That's not fair." "You want to torment me the way I just tormented you." "That sums it up for me," said Nat. Dory put her hand in the bag. She drew out a Rune and laid it on Tracy's desk. "It's the Blank Rune again. What did that mean?" said Tracy. "Look it up," advised Dory. "Wait a minute," said Tracy. "It's blank. It means you get nothing on me, coppers. Return the book and stones to me when you're done."