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

by R. D. Hunter

Begone from my sight.”

  The spell surged forward, basking the Smiling Man in a luscious, pink glow that made him howl and stumble back. Still, that damn smile never left his face and I poured more energy into the spell. It tore at the air around him, causing little blotches of howling darkness to open as our plane of existence struggled to evict him. Still, he didn’t go. He dug his fingers into our universe and hung on, making the whole house shake and groan from the stress.

  I was running out of power. If the spell fizzled out while the Smiling Man was still here, our reality would heal itself in moments and my corpse would be found hours later, in much the same shape as Nichole Barret’s.

  No! I wouldn’t allow that. I was a witch, dammit. I wouldn’t fall prey to a hyped-up bad dream.

  I emptied the rest of the power in the Rose Quartz, pouring it into my spell along with a healthy dose of my own. It reacted like a caustic acid to the Smiling Man, causing his shape to burn and shrivel before my eyes. It was a welcome sight.

  But it wouldn’t be enough. Whatever had brought him into our world, he’d soaked up too much energy from it to be banished by one witch. I was going to lose, and it was going to hurt.

  Tilly saved the day. Without warning, she jumped up on the table chair beside the Smiling Man and hissed in a way I’d never seen her, or any cat for that matter, do. Her mouth spread back, revealing sharp fangs and, it may have just been my imagination, but I could have sworn I saw a faint glow at the back of her throat.

  Whatever it was, it did what my spell and all the power I’d pumped into it couldn’t; it scared the Smiling Man.

  He recoiled in what I guessed was horror, throwing his hands up in front of him in a defensive gesture. Without his will to keep him here, my spell tore away at the fabric of reality around him. In an instant, there was nothing more than a gaping maw, roaring at me from the middle of my living room. Then it snapped shut with a CRACK like God slapping a mosquito, and all was quiet.

  I sunk to the floor, spent and exhausted. Any kind of rejuvenation I might have gleaned from my self-care routine earlier was gone and I felt like a newborn baby trying to arm wrestle the Rock.

  But I was alive, and that was all that counted.

  Tilly came over to me, nuzzling my face with hers and purring loud enough that it made my teeth vibrate. I absently reached out and scratched her in her special place, marveling at the fact that, if not for her, I’d be dead or at least wishing that I was.

  “Good kitty,” I said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sleep was an impossibility that night. Even though I was certain my spell would keep the Smiling Man at bay at least until the next nightfall, that didn’t mean that whoever had summoned him up and sicked him on me wouldn’t try something else in the meantime. Of course, that was the only thing on my mind.

  It takes a lot of juice to communicate with something from another realm, much less summon it completely to our realm. But, more than that, in order to send it after someone, you had to have a connection with them. Usually, it meant either having something personal of theirs, a piece of them, like hair or blood, or their true name spoken from their own lips. I’m usually really careful about those sorts of things, but obviously someone out there had my number. The only question was who?

  Fortunately, I had a theory on that. It was entirely possible that Trisha and the Things managed to snatch some of my hair or dig some of my skin out from under their nails after the fight and was using that to aim the Smiling Man, but it didn’t track, mainly because Trisha knew I still had her poppet. If she took her shot and missed, I’d use it to make her look like a hairless ape for the rest of her life.

  No, if I had to guess, the only one who would spend the time, energy and resources to harness a malicious entity, was someone who knew I was coming after them and had something to hide; and the only thing that came to mind was the murder of Nichole Barret.

  So, who knew I was investigating her death? Practically the whole city. The press release I’d typed up had been uploaded to all the major newspaper websites less than an hour after I’d sent it in. That didn’t narrow things down.

  But who knew I was looking at them for the killing and was a part of the Fringe? Probably the same person who had plenty in the way of time and resources and who I had a meeting with in the next few hours. It all fit.

  Harold Mason had just tried to kill me.

  The only thing I could figure was that I hadn’t been speaking to Rob Tillory on the other end of that telephone line. It had been Mason himself. While normally a connection had to be done in person, if you had enough mojo, it could be done remotely. And while Mason himself wasn’t a practitioner, Hawkins had been kind enough to supply him with several names, including Nichole Barret’s, that he could easily bribe into doing his magical dirty work.

  This also gave me a possible motive. From the way Beth painted her, Nichole had been a good and honest person who wouldn’t hurt a fly. So, if Mason approached her with a job offer that violated her moral code, chances are she’d have told him to get bent quick.

  I had it on good authority that rich snobs like Mason don’t do so well with rejection, either personal or professional. Usually, their retribution comes in the form of barely disguised libel, slander or financial ruin. But, considering Mason’s reputation as well as the fact that he knew the kind of forces he was dealing with, it wasn’t too hard to believe he had made the leap to murder.

  Now, all I had to do was prove it.

  I had a few hours to kill, so I cleaned the place up a bit, burnt some sage and sweet grass to get rid of the otherworldly funk left behind by the Smiling Man, and set out a fresh can of tuna for Tilly. She’d earned it.

  Then I went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and about just gave up and went back to bed. The entire right side of my face where the Smiling Man had hit me was swollen and rapidly turning an impressive shade of purple. I looked like someone had hit me in the side of the head with a baseball bat and they’d aimed for the fences. No way my erstwhile partner would fail to notice that. Time for a little creative manipulation.

  Even though I was well and truly running on empty in the magic department, I managed to scrounge up enough energy for a simple glamour spell. Glamour spells aren’t hard. Basically, it’s all about taking a certain image you have of yourself, then projecting it onto reality for everyone else to perceive. The greater the change, the more energy it took.

  For instance, if I wanted to turn myself into a six-foot-tall model with long red hair and emerald green eyes, it would take a lot of juice and a hell of a lot of practice. But all I wanted to do was make my true, original form, minus the swelling, cuts and bruises, stand out for all the world to see. It didn’t take much, and I could offset the sleight discoloration around my eyes with makeup and some sunglasses. It should fool even Bill’s eye for detail.

  We met at Headquarters and went over the game plan for our meeting. When Bill saw me, his eyes narrowed and I could almost feel his gaze trying to penetrate my glamour. I tensed. I hadn’t had a lot of energy to work with and I’d never put a lot of practice into glamour before, but I prayed silently that it would come through for me now.

  It did. Finding nothing, Bill gave up his inspection and went back to preparing a list of questions for Mason. It was time to go.

  Before we left, Calloway pulled me aside for a little heart-to-heart. It wasn’t unexpected.

  “I just wanted to remind you to watch yourself around Harold Mason,” he said nastily.

  “Gee, Lieutenant, I didn’t know you cared,” I said with a bright smile, even though I wanted to pinch his knobby little head off at the shoulders. From the sour look on his face, he wanted to do the same to me.

  “I’m serious, Detective. Harold Mason contributes a lot of money to this department, money we desperately need. If he withdraws so much as a penny because you gave him lip, you won’t be able to get a job as night security at a construction site. Are we clear?”

&nbs
p; “Crystal, Sir. I’ll be a perfect lady as I’m questioning him about his involvement in Nichole Barret’s murder and subsequent mutilation.” I thought about giving him an over-the-top salute, but thought that would be pushing things a bit far. His eyes were already as big as dinner plates and a dangerous red, glow had filled out his cheeks.

  I beat a hasty retreat.

  “You know,” Bill said to me in the elevator, “there’s a betting pool as to how long it’ll take you to make Calloway’s head explode?” I looked at him in surprise.

  “Make his head explode?”

  “Or maybe just give him a stroke or aneurysm. It’s all the same.”

  “What’s the pot up to?” I asked.

  “Two twenty-five.” I let out a low whistle.

  “Let me know when it gets to three hundred. I’ll double my efforts and we’ll split the cash.” My partner shook his head and muttered something about reckless endangerment.

  Mason Industries was headquartered in the top ten floors of one of the most prominent high-rise office buildings in Atlanta. It overlooked the city like a behemoth, gazing down at the poor, pitiful peons who could only stare up in dismay at its majestic architecture and shimmering windows. At least, that was how I looked at it.

  To my surprise, we were greeted warmly by the front desk receptionist and immediately ushered into a waiting elevator. The ride up was smooth and quiet, and I used those seconds to focus on what I was going to say and even summoned a small trickle of my power to the surface, just in case. All that went out the window, though, as soon as the doors opened and we were greeted by none other than Harold Mason himself.

  I think my jaw dropped a little. I mean, I’d been expecting a perky assistant or intern to meet us, but this was the Big Cheese, standing there with a warm smile on his face, like he was waiting for old friends to drop by. Only, friends usually didn’t have a 6’4 three-hundred-pound gorilla masquerading as a bodyguard standing in the corner, waiting to pounce at the slightest indication of danger to his boss.

  “Detective Graves. Detective Perkins,” he greeted both of us with a firm handshake, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please follow me.”

  Now, I’d seen pictures of Harold Mason before. Living in Atlanta, his mug was plastered all over the newspapers and televisions at least once a week, garnering heaps of praise for a charitable donation or his savvy business sense. But none of them, and I mean none of them, prepared me for how freaking gorgeous the man was.

  He stood a little over 6 feet tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair that was trimmed and parted to one side. His teeth were so white they belonged in a toothpaste commercial and his features were chiseled enough that they looked like they’d recently escaped a museum devoted to statues of ancient gods. He was dressed casually, in an open-collar suit with no tie and seemed perfectly at ease in his surroundings, like he’d mastered them in some sort of secret rite and now they served him with devotion.

  We followed him through a front lobby, where he paused long enough to ask for coffee for himself and his guests from a professional-looking secretary, and into an office that was big enough to house my apartment and the parking lot attached to it. Ok, that might be an exaggeration, but you get what I’m saying.

  It must have taken up almost a third of the entire floor. The walls were all glass, providing a stunning visage of the city below. At the far end, stood a large desk, meticulously organized with a computer system that looked like it could handle all of NASA’s workload and run the stock market at the same time. In the corner were several pieces of exercise equipment, the latest models of course, and there were several glass tables all around, obviously arranged by a feng shui master to maximize energy flow, holding ceramic and stone sculptures. They looked old and I almost shuddered to think how easy it would be to knock one over and render it worthless with one clumsy move.

  I Mason to lead us over to the desk, but instead he motioned over to the corner, where a comfortable sitting area had been set up, obviously to take advantage of the incredible view when business wasn’t pressing. We both sat down on a leather sofa that was so soft I had to fight the urge to stretch out for a nap, while Mason seated himself in an easy chair across from us. The gorilla sat down at a small desk across the room, never taking his eyes off us.

  “Nice office,” I commented, then cringed inwardly. I’d meant it to be a polite ice breaker, but instead it came out sounding crude and boorish. Mason, to his credit, took it all in stride.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’m afraid I left most of the decorating up to others. I have no eye for it. My only contribution was the small lounge area we’re in now and the desk where I conduct most of my business affairs.”

  “Well, first of all, we want to thank you for meeting with us on such short notice,” Bill said, going over the spiel we’d cleared with Captain Barker before we left. “The Atlanta Police Department really appreciates…”

  “What was the nature of your relationship with Darren Hawkins?” I interrupted. There wasn’t time for this. Meeting us at the elevator, the huge office, it was all just one big power move. Time to return the favor.

  Mason blinked once.

  “Professional and unsatisfying,” he said after a moment’s pause.

  “Could you elaborate?”

  “I hired Mr. Hawkins to perform a service…”

  “To find people with magical abilities. Yes, we know. What makes you think magic is real, Mr. Mason?” Beside me, Bill shifted awkwardly and cleared his throat, a subtle sign for me to tone it down. I acted like I hadn’t picked up on it.

  “I don’t.”

  “Then why hire a private investigator to find it?” I asked in confusion. “In fact, why hire Hawkins at all? You could have had a team of the best detectives in the world on the case, but you chose a two-bit, badly reviewed gumshoe that’s just this side of a conman. Why?” The crossing and recrossing of Mason’s legs was the only indication I got that my line of questioning was making him uncomfortable.

  “I hired Mr. Hawkins because I didn’t want it to become common knowledge that I was looking into otherworldly matters,” he said stiffly. “The team of investigators you spoke of would have been a team of investigators. And you and I both know that the more people who know something, the less likely it is to remain confidential.”

  “Okay, so why not go with another investigator; one that works alone and will keep your secret but has a reputation that doesn’t look like it was fished out of the gutter?”

  “Because there would still be evidence connecting me to those investigators. They would require signed contracts with clauses, payment via check or electronic transaction. There would always be something linking me to them, and that was something I chose to avoid in this case. Mr. Hawkins was keen on accepting his retainer and the subsequent extensions in cash, without the usual forms filed and signatures signed. Not the best business practice, to be sure, but nothing illegal about it.”

  That was true. It was up to Hawkins to declare his income for tax purposes, something I was sure he avoided if at all possible, so this was cash under the table. Lacey once explained her business to me. She required all her clients to fill out and sign a contract, detailing exactly what they expected, the means they wished to employ, and an itemized bill to show where every last penny went. It was very much on the up-and-up. If Hawkins and Mason chose to do business without the safety net of a paper trail, that was on them.

  “So why magic, Mr. Mason,” I asked, moving on, “especially if you don’t think it’s real.” Mason’s face froze into an implacable mask of neutrality and politeness. I recognized a poker face when I saw one, which meant that this particular line of questioning was making him nervous. Good. Now we were getting somewhere.

  “Recently, I’ve come into something of a crisis of faith, Detective Graves,” he said deliberately, picking each word with care and precision. He absently fiddled with a large, black ring on his right hand. “The details of which are personal
and unimportant to your investigation, so I will not share them willingly. However, suffice to say I was paying Mr. Hawking to find me the equivalent of a ‘spiritual advisor.’” Now it was my turn to blink.

  “A spiritual advisor?” Mason nodded, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I tried not to notice that too much.

  “Yes, it’s not such a far-fetched concept as you might think. Many of the most powerful men in history, including sitting presidents, have employed trusted individuals who counsel them on supernatural or spiritual matters. I couldn’t go to the church, as they are a public institution and would have garnered too much attention. Nor did I wish to seek out a flashy charlatan who had palm reading franchises in every major city. I wanted someone simple, who practiced their art in private, without the need for an audience. Those are the potential candidates I asked Mr. Hawkins to prepare a report on.”

  “And what did that report say about Nichole Barret?” I asked, going for broke.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Mr. Hawkins. I never received a report.” That pulled me up sharp and short.

  “You never got a report?” I clarified, not quite believing my ears.

  “That’s correct.” Mason sighed, as if the prospect of blowing thousands of dollars for a service he’d likely never see a return on was a mild inconvenience, like getting stuck in traffic. “Unfortunately, Mr. Hawkins was quite punctual with requesting more funds to extend our business dealings, but conveniently unavailable when required to produce results. He ‘ghosted’ me, I believe is the term.” That didn’t bode well.

  “What are you going to do about it?” I asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, come on. Something tells me you’re not the type to take this lying down. You wouldn’t be the businessman you are today if you did. So, what are you going to do about it?” Mason’s mouth twitched, and I had the sudden inclination he was fighting back a boyish grin.

  “It’s already done. I’ve purchased the building where Mr. Hawkins’ office is located. He’ll be evicted at the end of this month. I have flooded all of his online profiles with negative reviews and comments, which will post gradually over the next few weeks. I’ve also called some of my contacts at the Internal Revenue Service who have opened an investigation into Mr. Hawkins book-keeping practices. In short, his professional career in this city is over and he’ll be lucky to escape jail time.”