Moonheart

by Charles de Lint

  So where are you now, Hengwr? he asked the shadows that spilled between the old houses. Was it your idea to have my man blown away? Or did your boy do it on his own time?

  He sat in silence for a long time, waiting for some inspiration to come to him. Then, sighing, he started up the Buick and headed up to Rideau Street. He decided it was time to have another look through the files back at the office. Christ knew he could just about quote them word for word as it was. But he couldn’t just sit around and do nothing, waiting for a break that might never come. He might come across something he’d missed before. Yeah, and maybe Hengwr and Foy’d waltz in and turn themselves in.

  But that wasn’t the way it worked in the real world. Real world? Hell, with the speculations on which this Project was founded, who was to say where the real world even fit in?

  Meeting J. Hugh Walters in his private study wasn’t quite the same thing as being dined by him in the Chateau Laurier, Hogue decided. For one thing there was no one to see how important you were. And for another, there was a palpable sense of danger floating in the air. The sudden realization came to him that at some point between the last time he’d met with Walters and tonight, he’d been thrust across the boundary that separated colleague from employee. He wondered if he’d ever get a chance to work his way back.

  “Sit down, Lawrence, sit down,” Walters greeted him. “Would you care for a drink?” But once Walters took his chair behind his big desk, little time was wasted in getting to the matter at hand.

  “I’m not at all pleased with your handling of Project Mindreach, Lawrence.”

  “I . . . I can explain,” Hogue began, trying to relax so that his trembling hands wouldn’t spill his cognac.

  “I’m sure you can,” Walters replied wearily. “But I don’t pay you for explanations. I pay you for results. The latter, it seems, are beyond your capabilities.”

  Walters frowned and Hogue wanted to crawl under the rug. He felt like a nobody, compared to his host, who had controlling stocks in a half dozen multi-national consortiums, who chaired a number of important advisory boards as a favor to friends in the Senate, who was on a first name basis with both the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition, whose actual political interests were of a far greater scope than simply the country of his birth and present residence, who when he traveled abroad was as welcome in the war-torn Middle East or in the Eastern Block as he was amongst the member nations of NATO.

  “I could get better results if it wasn’t for Inspector Tucker,” Hogue said.

  “I understood that the strategies were yours. He simply implemented them.”

  “Yes. That’s true. But since then‌—since we lost Hengwr, and now Foy‌—he’s taken over.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re driving at,” Walters said.

  “No,” Hogue explained. “It’s I who didn’t understand. When you first brought him up, I thought he’d be perfect for the job. We needed tight, absolute security. And we have that. But now that we’ve had a couple of setbacks‌—based on my strategies, I’ll admit‌—he’s taken over the Project.”

  “That won’t do.” Walters tapped his fingers on the blotter before him. “If it’s true, we’ll have to have him stopped.”

  “I don’t think you fully appreciate the uniqueness of Tucker’s position on the Force,” Hogue said. “I didn’t myself until just recently. They simply turn him loose on the problem and don’t check up on him again until the operation’s finished. He doesn’t get told so much as he tells. He’s answerable only to Superintendent Madison, who in turn reports directly to the Solicitor-General’s office. I don’t think even the Commissioner is aware of Tucker’s position.”

  “I don’t believe he is,” Walters agreed. “But then again, when I recommended that such a position be set up, there were good reasons for it‌—reasons that no longer apply as that old problem has since been rectified. In the meantime, there seemed to be no reason to change Tucker’s status. He has been doing an exemplary job.”

  “You recommended . . . ?”

  “That was some time ago‌—around the time of the APLQ fiasco.”

  Walters was referring to the burglary of the Agence de Presse Libre du Quebéc offices in 1972. The APLQ was a politico-journalist organization that, along with the Mouvement Pour la Défense de Prisoniers Politiques du Quebéc, was sympathetic to the FLQ cause and alleged to have lent assistance to jailed “political prisoners.” The affair, like a low-key Watergate, didn’t become public knowledge until some three and a half years later with the arrest of an RCMP Constable involved in a bombing attempt on the Mount Royal home of a Steinberg’s supermarket chain executive in Montreal. Subsequent evidence pointed to the first time that the RCMP had been implicated in methodical illegal activity.

  Tucker had been assigned to assist the Royal Commission that was established in the summer of 1977 to determine the scope and frequency of those activities.

  Seeing Hogue’s baffled look, Walters shrugged.

  “At any rate,” he said, “when it was decided that we needed the tightest security available, I naturally thought of Tucker.”

  “And does he. . . .” Hogue licked his lips nervously. “Does he know anything about the arrangement between us?”

  “Heavens, no. He doesn’t even know that I recommended him in the first place. But that’s rather irrelevant. You were telling me how he was obstructing the positive flow of the Project. How so, exactly?”

  “It’s not something that’s easy to explain.”

  “Try,” Walters urged dryly.

  “Yes. Well. It’s more a number of small things than anything major. But you know as well as I that in research, great discoveries are made not from major efforts, but‌—”

  “Spare me the lecture. How is he hindering the Project?”

  “We lost Hengwr. Then‌—”

  “I understood that Hengwr’s loss was due to your miscalculations, not Tucker’s.”

  “Yes. Perhaps. But tell me this then: why wouldn’t he bring in this Sara Kendell? She had potential. Not to mention that he refused to cover up a loud-mouthed ADM out in Tunney’s Pasture who was threatening to go to the papers. Not to mention that he lost one of his men‌—”

  “Yes,” Walters broke in again. “That interested me. How was he attacked? Are any of the statements of the witnesses available? I didn’t receive any with your earlier report.”

  “I have them in my office. I’ll send them over with a courier first thing in the morning.”

  “Now this woman. What’s your interest in her?”

  “Did you read the reports?” Hogue asked.

  “Yes. They hardly seemed to warrant further investigation.”

  “Tucker seemed to think she was important enough to have followed. He put a man on both her and her uncle.”

  “Ah,” Walters murmured, nodding to himself. “Because of the bone artifact?”

  “I think it’s something more. Tucker’s been studying the files on Tamson House. He’s spending more time with those files than he is on his so-called security.”

  Walters smiled thinly. “But you are secure, are you not?”

  “Yes. But‌—”

  “Then how is he being lax?”

  “He . . . that is. . . .”

  “I think if there is any laxness to be discussed, it is yours, Lawrence. Only yours. Your pathetic attempt to pass the blame over to Tucker is scarcely laudable. You had your chance, and you’ve failed. And, I will admit, some of the blame for that failure is mine as well. I saw only your work in the laboratory and didn’t consider what values of leadership you might have‌—or that you lacked. Unfortunately for both of us, it’s too late now. My quarry is long gone and, with him, any reasons I might have had in continuing to support Project Mindreach.”

  “Hengwr’s just one man,” Hogue protested. “There are others. Many others.”

  “Others who are gifted to some degree,” Walters agreed. “Yes. There are those. Ones w
ho can guess the draw of a card from another room. Who can make a matchbox feebly twitch on a tabletop, or who can find some missing object after three or four false starts. And there might even be others like Hengwr‌—truly gifted men. But I’m afraid, with him warned, we’ll not see their like soon‌—either in the world at large, openly showing their gifts, or in our lab, spilling their secrets from drug-loosened tongues. No, Lawrence. I’m afraid it’s over.”

  “You’re going to close up? Just like that?”

  The fear returned and sweat beaded Hogue’s brow. He knew too much for Walters simply to let him go. So long as the Project was operative, he was safe. Without it . . . when Walters had no more use for him. . . .

  “It will be more gradual than‌—” Walters snapped his fingers. “After all, we’re dealing with the government, aren’t we?”

  “Then I still have a chance,” Hogue murmured.

  “How so?”

  “To find him. Your Thomas Hengwr. If I find him, the Project won’t be closed down, will it?”

  “No. Of course not. But‌—”

  “Then I’ll find him. And I’ll get his secrets for you.”

  He had to, Hogue realized. If he redeemed himself, if he could give Walters what he wanted, the implicit threat in Gannon’s cold eyes need never be realized.

  Walters seemed to take a long while to consider. When he finally nodded, Hogue felt himself let go of a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  “Why not?” Walters said. “It certainly won’t hurt. We’ll go on for awhile‌—but with one small difference.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tucker will be removed. I don’t want to have to listen to you blaming the poor man for all your failures any more.”

  “How do you plan to . . . remove him?” Hogue asked.

  The word, coming from Walters and hard on the heels of Hogue’s own fears, carried an ominous ring.

  Walters regarded him and smiled. “For God’s sake, Lawrence,” he said, reading the look in Hogue’s eyes. “Get a hold of yourself. He’ll be transferred. Removed from the Project. Not from his place here amongst the living. What do you take us for? Butchers?”

  He glanced at Gannon as he spoke. His assistant gave him a thin smile in return, then returned to his feigned indifference. Hogue, still flustered, missed the exchange.

  “No,” he was saying. “I didn’t think that. At least . . . that is, I wasn’t thinking at all.”

  “Well,” Walters said dryly, “see that you at least make an attempt to in the future. And now, if you’ve nothing more to add?”

  Hogue shook his head.

  “Then Phillip will see you home.”

  Walters watched his assistant lead Hogue from the room and slowly shook his head. It was strange how wrong a first impression could be. When he’d been looking for someone to head up Project Mindreach, someone whose research followed his own interests but who could also be controlled, Hogue had seemed perfect. He’d summed up the thrust of his studies succinctly during that first interview, ending with an observation that had decided Walters.

  “These people,” Hogue had said. “If they have even half of the abilities that have been attributed to them, their potential is unlimited. In fact, it’s conceivable that they might even be immortal, for with such a finely attuned control over body and mind, it’s only a few steps further to the development of a regenerative cellular structure that neither ages nor suffers the permanent loss of an appendage. If they lost a limb, they could simply grow another.”

  “Do you really believe this?” Walters had asked.

  “I believe in the potential for such abilities. Whether or not there are men and women in the world who possess them is another matter. I would need firsthand case studies to satisfy my own doubts, let alone allay the skepticism of the scientific community at large. And to be honest, I have no hope of finding such subjects to document. The only ones who ever step forth are fools and charlatans.”

  “If I could provide you with a subject?”

  “If you could. . . .” Hogue had smiled. “The sky would be the limit. If you could provide me with a subject.”

  Walters shook his head again, remembering. Oh, he’d had a subject all right. It merely needed careful handling.

  He’d first met Thomas Hengwr at a faculty party at the home of a history professor from the University of Toronto. That was in 1954. Hengwr had been introduced to him as Roger Shipley‌—a philosophy prof who was a colleague of Dr. Aled Evans in whose home the party was being held. He’d been an odd little man then, comical in appearance, but a brilliant conversationalist. They’d spent that night and many a night throughout that semester discussing and comparing their own fields of expertise: Walters’s was the world of finance, but his interests matched Aled’s specialty, anthropology. Hengwr had been well versed in both pre-history and other more arcane applications of philosophy, particularly pre-Christian religions.

  The three of them were almost inseparable that winter of ‘54-‘55. But in the spring, Walters was transferred to New York City where he began his quick rise from prodigy to the presidency of his first multinational. He lost touch with both Evans and Hengwr until, moving to Ottawa, he’d read Evans’s obituary in the local paper. Coincidentally, that same week he attended a luncheon sponsored by the National Museum. The guest speaker was Thomas Hengwr.

  Walters had recognized him at once; the man hadn’t changed during the twenty-five years that had passed since those days in Toronto. Which struck Walters as mildly curious. What interested him more, however, was that when he was speaking to Hengwr after the luncheon, the man had been polite and appreciative of Walters’s interest in his talk, but totally denied knowing him, denied ever having taught at U of T, in fact, denied being the man Walters insisted he was.

  Faced with the conflicting reality of his memories versus Hengwr’s denials, Walters had acquiesced amiably enough, but vowed to satisfy, if nothing else, his own curiosity.

  He instigated a private investigation that, by the very ambiguity of its results, fascinated him all the more. The man giving the talk that day, the man he’d spoken to, did not exist, at least not in any official records. Nor did the professor Walters remembered in Toronto. On top of that, what little information he did acquire pointed to something so bizarre that at first Walters was prepared to dismiss the entire affair out of hand. But as further tantalizing snippets of information were added, and a crude picture began to form, he realized he was on the track of something far more important than the salving of his curiosity. Thomas Hengwr was a sorcerer, and had been for many years. Walters now initiated a serious study of the paranormal, combining what little data he had on Thomas Hengwr with the most up-to-date speculations that the scientific community was prepared to consider. What had begun as a means of assuaging that unfamiliar sensation of being brushed off had become a mild obsession.

  It was easy enough to rationalize. If such powers existed, he wanted them for his own. If Hengwr was an immortal, then Joseph Hugh Walters would be an immortal as well. And once immortal . . . what could be denied a man who lived forever? Neither wealth, nor political power, nor anything. If one had all of eternity to work with, what could not be acquired, given time?

  But then‌—when everything appeared to be going well‌—Thomas Hengwr simply disappeared. Had he sensed the approaching entrapment? For a man with his capabilities, it would be child’s play to circumvent a simple police investigation. That was why they’d gone about their own investigation so circumspectly. But however Hengwr’d come to see through their ploys, he was gone now. And with him, all hope of Walters’s acquiring those extraordinary powers for himself.

  “Rankles, doesn’t it?”

  Walters shook off his reverie and nodded to Gannon who’d returned from seeing Hogue off in his cab.

  “It comes from playing it all so low key,” Walters said. “This town does it to one.”

  “Does what?”

  “Put
s a small-town mentality on everything you do.”

  Gannon shrugged. “I don’t think it’s a lack of our professionalism that spooked Hengwr.”

  “You hadn’t mentioned that before.”

  “I’ve had to think about it,” Gannon said. “But the more I do, the more it seems that something else spooked him.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, if you grant him the capabilities that you do, isn’t it highly probable that there are others like him? And if you’re with me that far, isn’t it conceivable that he might have an enemy amongst those others?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.”

  “Look at it this way,” Gannon explained. “He lived like he was on the run. Look how he covered up when you met him at that luncheon. And when we backtracked him‌—nothing. No, I think he was on the run and someone got close and spooked him.”

  “Which leaves us where?”

  “With two choices. We either find Hengwr and help him out against whoever’s after him, or we find out who’s after him and see what we can learn from them.”

  Walters nodded. “I like that.”

  “About Hogue. . . .”

  “He’s a liability.”

  A cold smile flickered in Gannon’s eyes. “How do you want it handled?” he asked.

  “Make it look accidental.”

  “And Tucker?”

  “No. I don’t want Tucker out of it. That speech was for Hogue’s benefit. But I want the Inspector prodded. He could very well find Hengwr for us. The man has a certain tenacity that won’t let him give up until he’s finished what he’s set out to do.”

  Gannon frowned. “That could be dangerous. I don’t think Tucker’s someone we can play out on a line and then cut off when we don’t need him.”

  “Then you’ll just have to be careful, Phillip. After all‌—that’s what I pay you for.”

  Gannon nodded. “Do you have any ideas on how we can prod him?”

  “No. I’ll leave that up to you. Only keep it clean.” As Gannon stood up, Walters added: “One more thing, Phillip. I think you should check into this Sara Kendell that Hogue mentioned. And her uncle. We can’t afford to pass anything up at this point. I’ve heard a lot of strange talk about Tamson House over the years and it could be that we’ve been ignoring the very thing we’ve been looking for simply because it’s been under our noses all along.”