Arrest, Search and Séance : Book 1 of the Fringe Society

by R. D. Hunter

  I shot him a look.

  “Don’t give me that,” the Captain said. “I’m only telling you this for your own good. The more you disarm this man, the safer you and your career will be.”

  “Sir, I understand the man has a lot of pull, but you’re talking about him like he’s the devil’s only begotten son. The man runs charity drives for orphan penguins, for God’s sake. I mean, how bad can he be?”

  “Exactly my point! Sponsoring charities and giving to the poor is all well and good, but this guy goes overboard with it in a way I’ve never seen. Now, to everyone else, this might just mean he has an overly large heart, like the Grinch after he discovered Christmas. But you and I, the people who have seen the darker side of humanity, recognize this tactic as something else.”

  “It’s a distraction technique because he has something to hide,” I finished the thought for him. Barker nodded grimly.

  “Exactly. And my gut tells me if he thinks, for a split second, that you’re looking too close at an area where you need not be, he’ll bury you and this whole division with you. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I’ll be careful, Captain,” I said with all seriousness.

  “Good. Because if he really did kill Nichole Barret because he thought she was an honest-to-god witch, there’s no telling what a man with that kind of delusion will do.”

  Or a man who’s that close to the truth, I added to myself.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I wanted to charge right down to the massive office building of Mason Industries and speak to their CEO, but Bill cautioned me against it. He was right. I had to do this delicately, so I phoned ahead.

  The first girl I talked to sounded put out that she had to deal with the regular populace, and politely but firmly said that Mr. Mason was not available to meet with the public until sometime next year. It wasn’t until I identified myself as a detective with the Atlanta P.D. that she seemed to pull her head out of her ass and transferred me up the line.

  The next guy I talked to was Rob Tillory, Vice-President of Public Relations. And he sounded so pleased to talk to me I thought he might propose before the conversation was over.

  “Of course, Mr. Mason always has time for the fine men and women of the Atlanta Police department,” he gushed. “And what is this is in reference to?”

  “It’s possible your boss has some relevant information regarding an ongoing investigation,” I said as diplomatically as possible.

  “I see. And may I ask the nature of this investigation?”

  “You can ask but it won’t get you anywhere.” Beside me, Bill coughed and looked at me pointedly. “I mean…I’m unable to discuss the details of the investigation with anyone but Mr. Mason.” See, I can be nice.

  “Of course,” Tillory said a bit stiffly. “Unfortunately, Mr. Mason is out of town on business until late tonight. Would tomorrow at 10:00 am be quite convenient.”

  “Yes, quite convenient. Thank you,” I said, matching his syrupy sweet tone. I hung up and met Bill’s disapproving gaze. “What?”

  I didn’t get home until after eight that evening. Between cataloging the evidence from Charley and his crew (which wasn’t much, admittedly), filling out reports and writing a press release, I was stuck at my desk for the rest of the day.

  That’s how investigative work usually goes. Following leads and chasing down suspects is only a small part of it. In fact, most of it happens right there in the office; looking up information, making phone calls and having witnesses and victims come to you to give statements. There’s something to be said for having the home court advantage.

  Home was an old farmhouse I’d lived in when I was a little girl. There was an overgrown garden in the back yard, complete with a gazebo and even a small pond. The forest had encroached on most of the cropland, leaving me with only a small pasture and barn, just big enough for a horse or two if I ever wanted one. The house itself was two stories, white, with a wrap-around porch and large front deck.

  I’d like to say it was a beautiful, rustic structure, but the truth was I’d kind of let it go the past couple of years. The paint was peeling, the fence was broken in several places, and the lawn was wild and unkempt. I loved the place, I really did. It conjured familiar feelings of home and safety every time I pulled in the winding driveway. I’d just been so focused on my career lately that everything else had taken a backseat, just like Jack. Gramps would call that “being out of balance.” He wasn’t wrong.

  Tilly met me at the front door as I came on the porch. She was a dark, brown barn cat that had adopted me when I moved back here. I figured she’d been here longer than me, by that time, so it would be unfair to make her leave. Turns out, she was good company and we’d spent many comfy evenings since, curled up on the couch by the fire with her in my lap. She never complained when I came home late, as long as her food bowl was filled and earned her keep by keeping mice and other rodents at bay.

  Inside, the downstairs consisted of a large living area, dining area that I’d converted into an office, and a kitchen. Ahhh, my kitchen. It was the one major improvement I’d made to the place upon moving back in and I was supremely proud of it. Stainless steel appliances, custom built cabinets and a granite counter top made it a beauty to behold. After all, who ever heard of a witch, practicing or not, without a good kitchen?

  I kept the upstairs sealed off entirely to save on heat, and slept in a small bedroom directly off the living room. The bathroom, also, was smaller in size, but completely adequate for my needs.

  It was there that I headed now, bypassing the waiting fireplace after making sure Tilly had food, and ran a hot bath. I threw a couple hand-fulls of Epsom salt, dried eucalyptus and peppermint oil in the steaming water, then lit several blue candles and placed them at the four cardinal points. I even found a few amethyst crystals with some charge to them and positioned them around the edge of the tub. Sinking into that water was the closest thing I’d ever experienced to heaven.

  In the past twenty-four hours I’d been the victim of a psychic attack from a confused and pissed off ghost, beaten nearly to a pulp by Trisha and the Things, and clotheslined while running at full speed. And even though Beth and my grandpa had done a terrific job restoring both my energy and my body, suffering those kinds of injuries took a tremendous toll. Every cell felt drained and empty, like I was one shriveled up husk who kept going only through sheer will and stubbornness. Fortunately, I had plenty of both.

  I don’t know how long I saturated in the tub, drinking in the restorative energies from the herbs, candles and crystals. I felt a bit like a prune, being restored to full plum status, and it was amazing. By the time I got out, the candles had burned low, the water was only lukewarm and the amethysts were only pretty bits of rock. But, damn did I feel better.

  I threw on my comfiest set of pajamas, which consisted of an over-sized Tweety Bird shirt and boxers, and by then my stomach was remind me that I hadn’t eaten since the granola bar at Beth’s. That happened more often than I liked, another sign of my professional and person imbalance.

  Normally, cooking dinner is one of the best parts of my day. There’s something relaxing about the simple ritual of chopping vegetables, simmering meats, and adding spices to create something that will not only nourish you, but taste good as well. But not tonight. Tonight, it was a can of soup heated up in the microwave and melted cheese on toast. It went down like ambrosia.

  I gave Tilly a few cursory scratches behind the ear, and then it was off to bed. I barely managed to turn off the bedside lamp before delicious sleep overtook me. I should have known it was too good to last.

  I had a nightmare. This wasn’t all that unusual. I had nightmares on a monthly, sometimes weekly, basis. Never anything substantial; it was usually filled with disembodied voices, whispers in the dark or snakes. God, I hate snakes.

  But this was something different; something more terrifying; something more real.

  I was running down an endless, dark hallway. There we
re doors on both sides of me, but each one I tried was solidly locked. I knew it would be no use in trying to break through. I didn’t have the strength.

  Behind me, striding confidently forward, was a bald man in a black suit. He carried no weapons, but the psychotic smile plastered on his pale face was an indication of his intentions when he caught up to me. I was beyond terrified, and my heart hammered so hard in my chest I was afraid it was going to burst out and land at my feet.

  But the worst, the very worst, was the laugh. Each time I tried a locked door, the air vibrated with a high-pitched, wild laugh that set every hair on my body on edge. There was no mirth in it; no joy. It was composed only of a cruel mockery of my growing terror and the pain it wished to inflict.

  Eventually, as happens so often in dreams, my footsteps began to slow. The air became a thick mire until every movement took all my strength, and the Smiling Man grew closer. But then, a miracle happened. Just up ahead, one of the doors was opened a crack. A thin sliver of light could be seen piercing the darkness, and I knew if I reached it, I’d be safe.

  Slowly, I forced one foot in front of the other, straining with the effort and ignoring the harsh laughter that continued to mount. I was going to make it. I had to. But just as I reached my hand for the door knob, the Smiling Man caught up to me. His cold, clammy fingers wrapped themselves around the back of my neck and drug me back, screaming into the darkness.

  He jerked me around to face him. His eyes were lidless and empty. I knew what I was looking at was a shell, something designed to give form to the formless. And whatever inhabited it was as far from human as I was to a houseplant.

  “We’re going to have so much fun,” he said in my ear, his voice like razor blades on glass. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had one of your kind to entertain me.” He raised one gloved hand, and I was horrified to see his fingers turn into hissing cobras, their hooked fangs leaking green poison.

  He began to bring his hand closer to my face. The cobras, seeing their prey so close, began striking the air around me. Each time, he’d jerk them back just in time to keep them from breaking my skin, but it was just a stalling technique. Eventually, he’d let them have me, then we’d move on to some other sick, twisted game.

  I couldn’t do anything. His grip was like iron. Every time I moved, he brought the snakes in, until I froze with terror and stopped struggling.

  “Now, now, my Darling, don’t run out of fight too quickly,” he said mockingly without moving his lips. “That wouldn’t be fair.” He laughed again, this time right in my ear and I thought my brain was going to melt from the sheer force of it.

  One chance. I had one chance. Bracing myself, I looked inward and found my power there, waiting for me to summon it. I willed it to the surface, soaking my words in its glowing energy. The Smiling Man paused, sensing something was happening but unable to tell what. It was then that I made my move.

  “Waking World!

  Summon home your wayward daughter!”

  My voice rang out clear and loud, ricocheting off the darkness around me. The Smiling Man howled in fury and brought his snake hand in for the final strike, but I was no longer there. I felt myself being pulled by the force of my spell, out of his grasp and upwards. A moment later, I sat straight up in my bed, soaked in sweat and gasping for breath. I’d made it.

  I sat there in the darkness for several minutes, choking back the terror that threatened to overwhelm me again and again. What the hell was that thing? It was unlike any dream I’d ever had before. It was crueler, more vicious and even smarter. It’s like it seemed to know it was a dream, so it wanted to inflict as much pain as possible before I woke up. What was that about?

  I glanced over at the clock. It was a little after three in the morning. I needed to go back to sleep. Tomorrow was a big day, and I’d need all my faculties.

  Deep breathing exercises are great for a lot of things. With the right technique, they can relax the body, soothe the spirit and even help to block out pain. Alternatively, they can also be used to deliver massive amounts of oxygen to your heart and lungs, jacking up your fight-or-flight response to eleven. I’d had enough of that, so I settled on the former.

  After a few minutes, my heart had settled back into its normal, steady rhythm and some of the tense cords in my neck and shoulders loosened up. Then I heard something that made every ounce of blood in my veins turn to ice; a high-pitched insane laugh, and it was coming from right next to my bed.

  My eyes flew open to behold the horrifying visage of the Smiling Man, standing so close he could have reached out and grabbed me. A choked cry escaped my lips as I rolled off the other side of my bed, then crab-walked backwards to put some distance between myself and the monster from my dreams.

  Panic flooded my entire being and, for a few moments, I couldn’t think. That’s what panic does. It clouds reason and thought, letting your base instincts have free reign. I knew I’d need more than them if I had any hope of surviving this encounter. But forcing them back into the box and letting my rational thought processes back into the driver’s seat was easier said than done.

  The Smiling Man casually walked around the bed, his unblinking eyes locked on mine and his grin sharp and tight. He reached down with one hand and hauled me up by the scruff of my Tweety Bird night shirt. Almost without thinking, I smashed the palm of my hand against his lower jaw, trying to gain some kind of leverage for escape. But his grip never loosened, and I was unable to wriggle out of my shirt.

  “Did you just strike me?” he asked quizzically, his head cocked to one side. “How quaint. Do it again.”

  Never one to turn down a free shot, I brought my elbow up in a superb uppercut that snapped his head up towards the ceiling. A normal man would have dropped like a stone, but the only reward I received for my efforts was another round of squealing laughter that felt like someone was driving knives into my eardrums.

  “That looks like fun,” the Smiling Man said, his lips never moving. “Let me try.”

  An instant later, his hand came around too fast to see and smashed against the side of head. Once again, fireworks went off in my brain and my legs turned to jelly, unable to support me any longer.

  “Oh my gosh! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” my tormentor said with surprising sincerity. “Don’t pass out. Please don’t pass out. We have so much more fun to have. You can’t sleep through all of it.”

  With a supreme effort of will, I marshaled what few reserves my body had left. My vision cleared somewhat and my feet found new purchase on the hard wood floor. This seemed to please the Smiling Man, because I saw him nod his head, almost in respect.

  “That’s my girl.” I spit in his eyes.

  Something like a growl vibrated the air in the room, and the next thing I knew I was flying through the air to land in an ungraceful heap in the next room. I’d always wondered why in the movies the bad guys throw the good guys around when they have them in their grip. Turns out it hurts, a lot. Also, it’s a hell of a power move. Nothing takes the wind out of your sails quicker than being tossed about like a child’s toy. It makes you realize how small and insignificant you truly are, physically speaking.

  I had to move. I struggled to my feet, wincing as my left knee threatened to give out from where I’d landed wrong, and hobbled towards the living room. The sound of steady footsteps coming my way pushed me forward. I’d left my gun and athame on a little table right inside the doorway. I guessed that I’d reach it at about the same time as the Smiling Man rounded the far corner, which meant I had a choice to make.

  The cop in me said to grab the gun and empty the entire magazine into the bastard’s torso, then use it to beat him about the head, neck and shoulders until squishy things started coming out of his ears. Violent, simple and oh so satisfying.

  But the witch in me cautioned that this was obviously an extra-planar being and not necessarily subject to the laws of our universe. Physical measures, as impressive as they may, might not work. The safer alte
rnative was to use my athame to cast a circle. It should repel whatever energies animated the Smiling Man, and I’d be safe until daylight. Instinct told me sunlight was not this thing’s friend and he wouldn’t stick around for a cup of coffee.

  Wait a second! That was it. It was a creature from the nightmare realm. Someone had helped it cross over to our dimension, but it still originated from that same pit where our deepest, darkest terrors came forth to assail us in our sleep. Which meant I knew how to defeat it, or at least get rid of it.

  I reached in my jacket pocket that hung on the back of the chair, and pulled out the little piece of rose quartz Gramps had given me after it fell out of his bag. Rose Quartz is good for all kinds of things; it detoxifies the body, good for the complexion and will even help to soothe a cranky baby if you put it under its crib. But I wanted it for another reason. Rose quartz is a prime agent in dispelling nightmares.

  I gripped the precious stone in both hands, feeling its energy pulsating up my arms and settling in my chest. The Smiling Man stopped just inside the room, about fifteen feet from me, his body language uncertain now that he’d sensed a change in the air. Faced with the grinning visage of a creature that wanted nothing more than to torture and kill me, injured and uncertain, I did the only thing left to me; I smiled back.

  I raised my power in record time, mingling it with the slightly sweet energy of the rose quartz. Then, I projected it out into my words.

  “Creature of shadow,

  Terror and night,

  Begone from this place.