by D. D. Barant
I go back to the Brigade comic. Turns out it isn’t a comic at all—it’s a mock-up of one, twenty-two pages of rough panel layouts and scrawled notes in the margins. I pull out Dr. Pete’s copy and compare them side by side; they’re very similar except for one thing.
John Dark has been completely excised from the version that was released to the public.
I realize I’m actually avoiding reading the Seduction issues. It’s not a full moon, so it should be safe—but I place them flat on my desk and use a pencil to turn the pages anyway.
I don’t learn anything new. The stories are all standalone plots, usually dealing with some sort of betrayal or evil deed that winds up backfiring on the perpetrator. A question occurs to me, and the best person to ask is probably Cassius—he and I are overdue for a conversation anyway.
I walk down to his office and knock. There’s no answer at first, and I wonder if he’s disappeared, too—at this rate, I’m going to have to get a bicycle lock for Charlie. I knock again, and this time he tells me to come in.
He’s at his usual spot behind his desk, but the room is much darker than usual; the only light comes from his computer screen. Whatever he’s looking at, it has a lot of green in it.
“We need to talk,” I say.
“The words every man loves to hear,” he says. He taps a key and the lights come up, just enough to make the room feel more like a study instead of a dungeon. “You should know, Jace, that I can’t tell you much about the Hexagon.”
“I didn’t think you would. My question is about the Seduction of the Innocent murders—specifically, the comics that were produced as a result. Which of the scenes depicted were duplicated in real life—the original crimes, or the consequence that always follows?”
He studies me for an instant before replying. “The consequential ones.”
“That’s what I thought.” Those were the more horrifying of the two, of course—the initial murder scenes were bad, but the retribution that resulted was always worse.
“The spell generated a type of emotional dissonance,” Cassius says. “Reading the comic generates horror, but it’s tempered with a certain moral satisfaction that the antagonist gets what he or she deserves. Reversing the crime and punishing an innocent is a corruptive act—especially when subjecting an innocent audience to it. By approving of what befalls the villain in the comic, they’re unwittingly giving metaphysical support to the actual murder.”
“Essentially making them silent partners in the cult itself. Not exactly believers—more like endorsers.”
“Exactly. Thus the title of the series—the ones being seduced were innocent of what was occurring.”
“But John Dark knew exactly what he was doing.”
Cassius doesn’t respond.
I sigh. “You told me you now believe Dark is behind the murders, but you won’t give me anything else? Not even the reason you changed your mind?”
“We had him under surveillance, which is why I know he didn’t commit the murders personally. But the killings now seem secondary to the acquisition of the Brigade’s weaponry—and that’s very much Dark’s methodology. I simply don’t know who his agent is, or how they’re communicating.”
“Well, whoever they are, they now have the Sword, the Balancer gem, and the Solar armor. That’s a powerful combination.”
“If they can wield them. Mystic artifacts aren’t like your gun—you can’t simply point one and pull a trigger. All the Brigade’s weapons were warded and keyed to their user—those wards can be broken, but it will take time.”
“So why wait until they do? If you were surveilling Dark, you know where he is—can’t we just bring him in, try to sweat him?”
He laughs without any amusement in it. “Oh, absolutely. Then maybe we can put the president in an interrogation room and get him to confess all the bad things he did in college.”
I look at him skeptically. “You’re saying he’s out of our reach?”
“Not at all. I’m saying that any move we make directly against him better be as immaculate as the Virgin Mary and as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar, or the consequences will destroy us both.”
“Ah. There goes my plan of locking him up until he needs to go to the bathroom.”
“In any case, it doesn’t matter. He’s gone—vanished right from under our surveillance. Don’t ask me how, because I don’t know.”
“Damn it! Is every person associated with this case going to vanish into thin air? First Dr. Pete, then Silverado, now John Dark—I can’t even get hold of Gretchen.”
He blinks. A shadow of an emotion flickers across his face, so quickly I almost miss it—what analysts call a micro-expression. I’m trained to spot them, and I identify this one immediately: guilt. “What?” I demand. “What about Gretchen?”
“She’s fine.”
“Okay. Where is she doing this being fine?”
“A safe house. She’s there with Dr. Pete.” I stare at him in disbelief. “But you asked me to talk to her.”
“I know. I meant to tell you, but the theft of the suit was preying on my mind, and I—” He shrugs. “I forgot.” I glare at him. “No. You didn’t. You told me you’d look into whoever was stalking Dr. Pete, and then he disappeared. You were worried about Gretchen, so you hid her in the same place. But you didn’t want me following up on Dr. Pete, did you? So you decided that both their whereabouts should probably stay a mystery for now—which will hopefully keep me focused on the murder investigation and not sticking my nose into Dr. Pete’s past. How am I doing?”
“Admirably.”
“Yeah? Well, someone from Dr. Pete’s past threatened to turn me into Hamburger Helper a few hours ago, I was starting to think one of my only friends here might be the latest victim of a serial killer, and I just found out my prime suspect is in the wind because my employer thought it more important to protect his privacy than help my investigation. Now how am I doing?”
“I realize this is a difficult situation—”
“You don’t realize a damn thing. You knew all along and used that knowledge to manipulate me. So here’s something you don’t know: I quit.”
“What?” He actually looks startled. “You heard me. Screw this case, screw the Hexagon, and screw you. I’m going to hunt down Stoker and the shaman that brought me here, and when I find them I expect you to honor your end of the bargain and let me blow this entire goddamn planet a good-bye kiss.”
I close the door gently but firmly on my way out. “You’re kidding,” Xandra says. “You really quit?”
“Not exactly.” We’re walking through the Pike Place Flea Market on Saturday morning. It’s a series of tents and booths set up down by the waterfront, selling everything from fresh fish to antiques. I think it’s a little more run-down than the version in my world, but I can’t say for sure because I’ve never been. All I know is that here, you can buy pretty much anything.
“I’m still working for the Agency,” I say. “I’m just refocusing my priorities.”
Xandra’s looking at some jewelry. No silver, of course—mostly gold and copper. “Trying to catch that Stoker guy, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re sure Uncle Pete is all right?”
“I haven’t talked to him, but Cassius says he’s safe.” She picks up a Blood Cross made of wood on a leather thong and holds it under her throat. “What do you think?” I try not to wince. “I think it reminds me of things I’d rather not think about.” She throws it back on the table. “Not really my style, anyway.” We’ve got Galahad on a leash, and he’s doing his best to inhale the universe through his nose. I feel a twinge of affection, for him and Xandra both; I’m going to miss them when I finally go home. For now, though, I’m just going to enjoy strolling through the market, looking through piles of merchandise and assorted junk, marveling at the detritus of a culture very different from my own.
In twenty minutes of browsing, I see: a tattered cookbook on how to prepare field mice;
a Kabuki face mask made entirely of smoked glass; an antique tooth file; a voodoo perm kit that claims to let curls survive up to thirty transformations; a videotape of a movie called The Terminator starring Bela Lugosi; a stack of magazines from the 1960s called Fur and Fang Today; and a pup tent made from heavy black plastic that seals hermetically. Guess even pires like to go camping.
I also uncover some music, in various formats. Among my finds are an old forty-five of Dean Martin singing “Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime,” an eight-track tape of the Beach Boys—okay, I’m pretty sure Brian Wilson and the guys never did a song called “Hairy Mary,” but it’s got a bunch of others I recognize and I’m kind of curious to hear what werewolf harmonies sound like—and an honest-to-God CD of Colin James and his Little Big Band. Swing dance music, which I love.
I do my best to ignore the creeping sense of guilt I feel for shopping when I should be working. Not only did I promise Xandra, but this little outing is also helping me refocus—buying music that reminds me of home keeps me connected to my goal, which is definitely not getting enmeshed in the politics of a secret society full of supernatural beings.
One of which might be able to get me home a lot sooner. Of course, the very fact that Sheldon Vincent dangled that in front of me suggests he has something to hide and would prefer I relocate to another universe before I discover what it is.
Not that he’s the only one hiding something. The Quicksilver Kid didn’t tell us the whole truth, Cassius is spending as much time hiding information as he is providing it, and John Dark—so far, the biggest puzzle in the entire case—is pretty much only a face on the cover of an old comic book.
A face that’s right in front of me.
“Hello,” John Dark says. “I understand you want to talk to me.”
The first thing I do is look around for Xandra. She’s a few stalls over, sorting through some clothes.
The second thing I do is check for Dark’s security. Nobody obvious, which either means they’re very good or he doesn’t think he needs them. I choose the conceited but paranoid approach, which is good for both my ego and my safety. “Hello, John. Or would you prefer Mr. Dark?”
“John is fine.” He looks more or less exactly like he was drawn: high widow’s peak of black hair, thin mustache, triangular goatee. Sharp eyes above a small nose. He’s wearing a long black jacket over a three-piece suit, both of which look expensive, and highly polished leather shoes.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asks. “There’s an adequate coffee shop across the street.”
“Let’s go for a walk, instead,” I say. “I could use some sea air.”
“Very well.”
I pull out my phone as we leave the market and hit the boardwalk. I call Xandra and say, “Stay where you are, okay? I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
It’s a nice day, the sun peeking through a gauzy haze of cloud over the water. Seagulls swoop and hover, fighting over scraps of fish thrown away by vendors.
We stroll along like ex-lovers, the atmosphere strained and cautious; I almost expect him to say, I’ve been thinking about you lately.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, “about having you killed.”
“You always were sentimental,” I say. “What brought this on? I forget to send you a Christmas card?” He makes a small sound, more like a snort than a sigh. “I hate talking in clichés. This conversation is going to force me to do so, and I resent you for that. However, it’s not enough to get you killed. Yet.”
“Haven’t heard a cliché yet, either.”
“Stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Ouch! You weren’t kidding.”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with, you’re out of your depth and your league, dead women tell no tales so don’t make me tell you twice. Okay?”
“I think I get the idea. Do I have to talk like that, or can you understand regular speech?”
“You’re a bright woman, Jace. Tell me why I’m here.”
“Well, you’ve decided to let me live, at least for now. If you just wanted to warn me off, you’d do something horrific and violent. So you actually have questions for me … which you know you won’t get to ask unless you agree to answer a few of mine. Also, I’m going to reward my brilliant deduction by going first. Who’s killing the Bravos?”
He smiles. “I don’t know. But I’ll give you my best guess—the Quicksilver Kid.”
“Why?”
“Sorry, my turn to ask a question. Who’s backing Cassius?” It takes me a second to figure out what he means. “I don’t mean to be uncooperative, but if that question concerns the Hexagon, I have no idea. Cassius doesn’t share anything with me he doesn’t have to, and I’ve only met one other person who might even possibly be a member.”
“Who?”
That’s technically another question, but I give it to him. “Sheldon Vincent.” He nods but betrays no emotion. “Fair enough. To answer your question, the Kid was never treated as an equal in the team. Lems in those days weren’t considered people—they were more like glorified servants, barely more than slaves. If any of the Bravos were to go rogue, I’d put my money on him.”
“Okay. I guess you have another question coming.” He stops and faces the bay, his hands on the gray metal of the railing. “What do you know about me?”
“I know you were the real leader of the Kamic cult, and a member of the Hexagon. I know something happened that caused an internal split in the late 1940s. And I know you still have enough clout that when the cult failed, you cut a deal that kept you alive, out of prison, and out of the spotlight. What I don’t know is what caused that split, or if it has anything to do with the murders that are being committed now.”
He glances at me, no expression on his face. “That’s not exactly a question, Jace. Which is just as well… because what I have for you isn’t exactly an answer.” He pauses, then says, “Ask Cassius about the future. And how it’s shaped by the past.”
“Okay. Do I have to say ‘knock, knock’ first, or is it already sufficiently riddle-like?”
He laughs. “I’m glad I met you, Jace. I hope we’ll meet again.”
And then he turns and walks away down the boardwalk. I don’t bother trying to follow him; I know an exit line when I hear one.
TWELVE
I go back and find Xandra, who’s wandered off despite what I told her. Galahad acts like I’ve been gone for a million years, licking my hand and looking up at me with that adoration dogs seem to have trademarked. I tell her I’m ready to go and offer to buy her lunch.
Charlie’s waiting at the curb, leaning up against his car with his arms crossed and his fedora tipped back on his head. “Hey. I hear I’m unemployed.”
“You’re not. We’re still hunting Stoker.”
“We? This your new enforcer?” He nods at Xandra, who rolls her eyes. “Because I went to work yesterday and my partner wasn’t there. Seems she showed up early, threw a hissy fit, and then quit.”
“I told you, I didn’t quit. I went home early and got some much-needed sleep.”
“You’re all rested up, then. Good. Get in.” I sigh, and hand my bag of music to Xandra. “Take Galahad back to my place, will you? He should be okay there for the rest of the day.”
“What about lunch?” Xandra says. Teenagers have their priorities. “Raid my fridge. I think there’s still some stuff left from the other night.” She shrugs and says, “Okay, whatever. See you later.” Once we’re rolling I say, “Where we going?”
“It’s a surprise. Like you not calling me after blowing up.”
“I needed some time away from work. To think.”
“About what?”
“Work.”
“I see.” We drive for a while and neither of us says anything. The best kind of partner knows when to push you and knows when to back off; Charlie’s that kind. Somehow, he always knows when to shut up.
“I don’t know,” I say at last. “This case
is impossible. Everybody knows way more than I do, and nobody’s willing to talk. And those are the ones supposedly on my side.”
“True.” I shake my head. “But I keep thinking about Gretchen. She deserves justice, and so does her kid. Plus, I’ve got the whole possibly-going-back-to-my-old-life-as-a-seniorcitizen thing hanging over my head.”
“Uh-huh.” I glare at him. “Is this you being supportive? ’Cause you kinda suck at it.”
“I’m just waiting.”
“For what?”
“You to rationalize the fact that you can’t give up on this case. Well, any case, really, but this case in particular. It’s entertaining—kind of like watching a cat chase its own tail. You know two things from the very start: that the whole process doesn’t really make sense, and that the cat’s eventually going to catch it.”
“If I were the type to sputter, I’d be sputtering right now.”
“With righteous indignation?”
“Yeah, that.”
We fall silent again. It feels good.
Eventually I say, “John Dark approached me at the flea market.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No. He wanted to know who was on Cassius’s side. I get the feeling that he’s still a player in Hexagon politics.”
“Makes sense. This whole thing could be an internal power struggle.”
“Maybe. Why try to win over supporters when you can kill them and take their weapons?”
“While making it look like the work of a nutjab?”
“Nutjob, Charlie.”
“Really? Nutjab sounds crazier.”
“How would you know? You don’t have any.”
“I have the objective perspective of an outsider.” Which reminds me of something else. “Dark also claimed the Quicksilver Kid was the most likely to turn on his friends. Said that lems weren’t real well treated back then.”
“If by well treated, you mean occasionally thrown down a well, then yes. But I have my doubts about him as a suspect.”
“Why?”
“Golems are known for their loyalty. It’s part of who we are, part of the spell that animates us. That’s why we’re used as soldiers, as cops. We may not be incorruptible, but it’s awfully damn hard to make us turn on our own.”
