Moonheart

by Charles de Lint

  Blue regarded her quizzically.

  “I wouldn’t want it any other way,” she added.

  “Yeah. Well‌—”

  Whatever he’d meant to say remained unsaid.

  “What’s that?” he asked, rising from the table.

  “It sounded like Jamie. . . .”

  “Je-sus!”

  Blue was off and running for the east side of the House before Sally could even get up. Tearing down the hallways, he skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs that led up to Jamie’s study. Jamie stood at the top of them, his face white.

  “What happened?” Blue demanded. “When I heard you yelling. . . .”

  “It’s . . . I . . .” Jamie pointed back down the hall toward his study.

  Blue took the stairs three at a time and, brushing past Jamie, headed for the study. He wished he’d taken the time to pick up his makeshift club from the hall. Or better yet, gotten his rifle like he’d said he was going to do. But when he reached the doorway to the Postman’s Room, with Jamie on his heels, he saw that they didn’t need a weapon. What they needed was a doctor. Or a morgue attendant.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  Lying in a sprawl in front of the fireplace was a small man. One half of his face was a bloody ruin, the flesh cut to the bone. All around his head the carpet was stained with blood.

  “I thought . . . I thought you and the Inspector went over the House. . . .” Jamie said slowly.

  Blue shook his head. “We never got this far. Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know. I just saw him and . . .”

  Blue crossed the room and knelt by the man. He started to reach for him, then dropped his hands uselessly. What the hell was he supposed to do? They had to get this guy to a hospital and fast, except . . . He bent closer.

  The edges of the claw marks were already pinking. The wounds appeared to be healing as he stared at them. It was like watching time-lapse photography on a TV documentary. Nervously, he put two fingers to the man’s throat and found a pulse. The guy was still alive.

  “I don’t believe it,” Blue muttered.

  “What?” Jamie asked, hovering at his elbow.

  “Just look at it. The wounds’re healing all by themselves.” He turned to look at Jamie. “Is this . . . ?”

  Jamie nodded. “Thomas Hengwr. We’d better call an ambulance.”

  “No way.”

  “But‌—”

  “I told you,” Blue said. “The wounds are healing. More of his magic, I suppose.”

  “That’s impossible,” Jamie began, then realized what he was saying and who he was saying it about.

  “I want to have a talk with this guy,” Blue said.

  He understood a lot now. Given that all the magics and other bullshit were real, this was the reason for the attack this morning. Something out there wanted Thomas Hengwr. A dead harper, or some refugee from an old Hammer flick‌—it didn’t matter which. Whatever it was, it had given up the attack when the House’s defenses had proved too much for it. But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t try again.

  “What if he doesn’t get better?” Jamie asked. “What if he dies on us?”

  “Oh, he’ll get better. All on his ownsome.”

  “He was going to find Sara,” Jamie said. “Oh, Lord! What’s happened to her, then?”

  “We’ll clean Hengwr up and find out,” Blue said grimly.

  He looked around the room, trying to figure out some way that they could keep Tom here when he woke up. It wouldn’t do for him to simply vanish again like Jamie’d said he’d done last night. But what did you use to tie up a wizard?

  “We should call Inspector Tucker,” Jamie said.

  Blue sat back on his haunches. “We’ll do that. After Mr. Wizard here comes around and tells us a thing or two.”

  “I’ll go get some hot water and bandages,” Jamie said.

  “You do that, Jamie. I’ll keep watch on our sleeping beauty here.”

  Jamie almost ran into Sally as he was going out the door of the Postman’s Room. “Tom Hengwr’s returned,” he said in reply to her unspoken question and hurried on.

  “Thomas Hengwr? But‌—” Sally began, but Jamie was already a dozen paces down the hall. She entered the study, not sure she even wanted to know what was going on, and drew a sharp breath at what she found.

  “Do you know anything about nursing?” Blue asked, looking up.

  She shook her head numbly. “What happened? How’d he get in here?”

  “I don’t know,” Blue said. “But I mean to find out.”

  When Tucker pulled up in front of the Brooke Claxton Building in Tunney’s Pasture, he sat in his car for a few moments, composing his thoughts. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing here. He was sure that Jean-Paul Gagnon had told him all he knew. The main question he wanted to ask‌—if anything new had come to light‌—could have just as easily been asked over the phone. What it was, he supposed, was that you could never get a real grip on a person over the phone. You missed all the nuances. The set of the mouth. The look in the eyes. It was easy to lie over the phone. He’d done it himself, the first time he got in touch with Jean-Paul.

  Well, he told himself. I won’t learn anything sitting out here on my ass. Pocketing his keys, he got out of the Buick and made for Jean-Paul’s office. When he reached it, the ADM seemed surprised to see him.

  “Salut encore, inspecteur. Have you brought me news of Kieran?”

  Tucker shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I was hoping you might have something.” He looked at the spread of paperwork across Jean-Paul’s desk and added, “I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

  “Bien sûr que non. Please. Take a seat.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now. How can I help you?”

  As Tucker had discovered often enough in the past: Level with someone and you can drain away ninety-nine percent of their antagonism‌—as he had done already with Jean-Paul Gagnon. Looking at him, it was hard to remember that this was the same man who’d been ready to call the papers down on them not two days ago.

  “I’m trying to get a feel for this case,” he said. “There’s a whole lot that just doesn’t make sense.”

  “It has become a case now?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “Kieran’s involved in one death at the moment, Jean-Paul. And perhaps another.”

  Tucker watched the ADM closely to see what his reaction would be and saw only honest shock.

  “Who is it that has died?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “One of my men.”

  “But this is tragic. And how is Kieran involved?”

  “He was there when it happened. In fact, if our witnesses are to be believed, it was Kieran who killed my man. With some kind of magical power.”

  Jean-Paul shook his head slowly. “Mais c’est incroyable! How is this possible? I have known Kieran for many years. He is not‌—how do you say it? He could not do such a thing‌—jamais. He would never kill a man.”

  “Last time I was here I explained why we were looking for Kieran,” Tucker said. “We thought he might have some sort of special abilities, remember? Since then, one constable involved with this investigation has met a violent death, while this morning the head of our Paranormal Research Branch died under rather mysterious circumstances. The verdict that the coroner came up with on Dr. Hogue’s death was a heart attack. But he had no history of cardiovascular trouble and on his last medical he was given a clean slate.”

  “But to link Kieran with these deaths. . . .”

  “Until I find him and hear his side of the story, I’ve no other choice. Tell me, Jean-Paul. Did Kieran ever express an interest in the occult or magic to you?”

  “Hocus-pocus?” Jean-Paul asked lightly. “Such as card tricks?” But something passed across his eyes, belying the light tone of his voice.

  “Try the paranormal.”

  “We are all interested in the unknown, are we not, John?” He met Tucker’s gaze steadily, then sighed. “You spoke
of this before,” he said, “and I admit to a certain confusion, n’est-ce-pas? It seems somewhat unbelievable that you‌—the RCMP‌—would be interested in such things. But I see you are serious.” He paused and adjusted some of the papers on his desk. “Was the occult connected to these deaths you spoke of?”

  “I’m not ruling it out,” Tucker replied. “At this point, I’m not sure what to think.”

  “And you think Kieran is a . . . sorcier?”

  Tucker regarded him for a moment. Then he related some of what had happened in Patty’s Place.

  “I’m trusting you to keep this to yourself,” he added.

  Jean-Paul nodded, understanding that such a trust was not given lightly.

  “So now you see where we stand,” Tucker said.

  “Mais . . .” Jean-Paul began, then shook his head. “How can such a thing be possible?” But as he spoke, his own suspicions of Thomas Hengwr returned in a flood. And if the master, why not the student?

  “I don’t even know if it is possible,” Tucker said. “I was just feeling you out. There’s not a hell of a lot in any of this that makes much sense. Not unless you want to accept fairy tales as real.”

  Jean-Paul looked out the window of his office. Here, in one of the bureaucratic centers of Ottawa, what they were discussing had no place. It had no place in anything either he or the inspecteur accepted as real. Considering all that he’d just been told‌—and there would be so much left unsaid as well‌—Jean-Paul was more prepared to believe this was all part of some gigantic hoax, except. . . . Except the inspecteur appeared just as uncomfortable as he felt and Jean-Paul could think of no reason on earth why the RCMP would concoct such an obviously unbelievable story.

  “D’accord,” he said, coming to a decision.

  “Sorry?”

  Jean-Paul smiled wanly. “I was thinking aloud, John. To reply to your earlier question: Yes. Kieran had a considerable interest in matters not of this world. It was for that reason I believe he took up his relationship with Thomas Hengwr who has something of a reputation of un sorcier. Kieran did not speak much of this interest‌—at least not to me‌—but often he would give me books on the subject . . . almost as though he was . . . how did you put it? Almost as though he was ‘feeling me out.’ ”

  “You think he wanted to get you to join him in . . . in whatever it was that he was involved in?”

  “It seems possible, in retrospect, does it not?”

  Tucker frowned. He’d broached the subject in the hopes of being laughed out of this office. Instead, Jean-Paul was taking it as seriously as Tucker himself was beginning to. As he had to.

  “Unfortunately,” Jean-Paul added, “I can be of little help to you, still.”

  “It helps,” Tucker said. “Puts things in a little better perspective, if nothing else.”

  Jean-Paul nodded. “There is a tie between Kieran’s interests. His music . . . la musique celtique. It is very magical in itself, n’est-ce-pas?”

  “Celtique?”

  “The music of Ireland and Scotland.”

  “Druids . . . and dead harpers,” Tucker said, more to himself, recalling his conversation with Jamie Tams. Jesus Ker-ist! “Do you know any of his other friends in town?” he asked. “Anybody involved in this music, say?”

  “There was his group‌—The Humors of Tullycrine. Let me think. They travel about so much, these musicians, the memberships of the groups changing so often. . . .” At length he shook his head. “I am sorry, John. It has been a few years and I was never close with Kieran’s friends.”

  Tucker shrugged. “That’s okay. I’ll check out some of the clubs that book that kind of music.”

  “If I think of anyone I will give you a call.”

  “Do that.” Tucker stood. “Thanks for your time.”

  “I only wish I could be of more assistance. If Kieran is in trouble, I would like to help. He is not an evil man, John.”

  Tucker thought of how Thompson had looked when they’d brought him in.

  “Christ,” he said. “I hope not.”

  Because if that was the work of a good man. . . . He shook his head wearily.

  Jean-Paul arose and saw him to the door.

  “Salut, John,” he said. “Bonne chance.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to need all the luck I can get. See ya. And thanks.”

  Sitting behind the wheel of his car later, Tucker went over what he had to go on so far and swore. If he could just get a handle, something solid. . . . Sighing, he started up the engine and headed back to headquarters.

  Phil Gannon found his employer working out in his private gym. Walters looked up as the big man entered.

  “Do you have something to report, Phillip?” he asked.

  Gannon nodded and took a seat on a bench press.

  “Tucker’s hot to trot, Mr. Walters. He knows Hogue’s death was no accident. And he knows he could be next.”

  “Good, good. And the other matter?”

  Gannon shrugged. “What do you know about Tamson House?”

  “A great deal. What aspect of it are you referring to?”

  Gannon’s shoulders repeated their nonchalant movement. “The place is a loony bin, from all I’ve been able to gather. I went with a couple of men to pick up Tams when Tucker arrived with a squad of his men, including some medics.”

  “Ah? And who was in need of medical attention?”

  “No one. It looked like they had a body under a blanket on the pavement, but all it turned out to be was a heap of rubbish, molded into the shape of a man. Tucker sent his men off and went into the House. I decided it was a bad time to make my own entrance, so I got in touch with Jack White to see what the score was.”

  “And what did our Mr. White have to offer?”

  “More questions than answers. Security’s tight. From what he could gather, Tucker went out to collect Thomas Hengwr’s body, only when they arrived it had . . .” Gannon looked embarrassed at relating this particular bit of information. “It had been transformed into the heap of rubbish I mentioned. Sticks and leaves and moss, held together with mud.”

  “Very interesting. Was there anything else?”

  “Not much. Sara Kendell is missing. She’s involved with Hengwr’s man‌—something to do with the cover-up at that restaurant last night. White still hasn’t been able to get his hands on the files.”

  “We have Hogue’s report.”

  “If we can believe it,” Gannon replied. “Anyway, that’s why I decided to pick up Tams. But now with Tucker on the scene at the House. . . .”

  “You did well to hold off on him. And how is our intrepid Inspector?”

  “He spent a couple of hours in the House, then I followed him out to Tunney’s Pasture. I’ve got a man on stand-by if he leaves headquarters again.”

  “Find out who he saw at the Pasture, and why.”

  “I’ll get on it.”

  “And tell our Mr. White to keep us informed. I want a minute to minute update‌—no matter how trivial the information might seem to him. You might also see about Tams, now that the Inspector’s left him on his own again.”

  Walters turned back to his weights, dismissing Gannon. The big man sat for a moment, then left the gym to carry out his orders.

  Jack White wasn’t going to like this. He was already nervous. When Gannon told him that Walters wanted a constant update on the situation, he was going to have a fit. But, Gannon thought, that was just too bad for him. You took your money and you took your chances with it. Of course it also helped to have that little matter of White’s own indiscretions to hold over his head. He was still selling secrets. Only the man who paid him his money had changed.

  “You know what this is beginning to become?” Madison asked.

  Tucker shrugged. When he’d reached headquarters there’d been another message on his desk‌—right on top of a report that Hengwr’s bone artifacts had disappeared from the museum last night‌—but this message was signed. He was to report to Super
intendent Madison’s office immediately.

  “It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is,” Madison finished.

  “You gave me a week, Wally.”

  “A week? Christ, I don’t know if I can hold out for another day. Word’s starting to filter upstairs, John, and what’s coming back isn’t pretty. Williams is going to be asking for my resignation if this keeps up‌—after they’ve drummed you out.”

  Anger flickered in Tucker’s eyes.

  “I didn’t set up this project,” he said.

  “I’m not talking about the project itself, John. I’m talking about a report that’s sitting here on my desk. What was Warne doped up on, anyway? I’m talking about calling out a mop-up squad to clean up some leaves and shit on someone’s front walk.”

  “I believe Constable Warne saw what he says he saw,” Tucker replied evenly.

  Madison said nothing for a long moment. Then he leaned back in his chair.

  “I think you need a break, John.”

  “You’re not taking me off this,” Tucker said, his voice flat.

  “You’re not being logical,” Madison countered.

  “Logical?” Tucker broke in before the Superintendent could continue. “There’s nothing logical about this operation, Wally, and you knew that before you ever assigned me to it. ‘Provide security,’ you said. Jesus Christ! It’s been more like wet-nursing a bunch of assholes who wouldn’t know their dicks from a hole in the ground. And security! I’ve busted my ass and this place is still about as secure as a cedar canoe that’s just broken up in white water.”

  “John, listen to me‌—”

  “No! You listen to me. These are your men I’m working with. And the operation itself. . . .” He shook his head in disgust. “It goes a lot deeper than finding some spook who can read minds or some such shit. I tell you what, Wally. You find out for me how a nobody like Hogue got hired to head this project. You explain to me how Thompson died. And Hogue himself, for that matter. You tell me why Warne sticks to his story when he knows it sounds like the ravings of some doped-up junkie. You tell me where the evidence at the museum disappeared to. You tell me what that note on my desk is supposed to mean.”