by C W Hawes
“So you’re going to create this tulpa thing to look like Mostyn and send it home on a plane,” Petrie said.
“That’s the idea,” Mostyn replied.
“Will it work?” Petrie asked.
Bardon smiled. “Yes, I think it will work. Time, however, is of the essence. We need to get started right away.”
“Then let’s do it,” Mostyn said.
“And we’ll also find out if this guy is honorable and will release Dr Kemper,” Baker added.
***
Mostyn, Jones, and Stoppen were in the room with Bardon. Kymbra NicAskill stood outside, guarding the room; making sure there were no intruders. The remaining team members were in the conference room watching what was going on via their computers.
To Mostyn, seeing Dr Rafe Bardon in his three-piece suit sitting in the Lotus Position, was comical. Except what they were trying to do wasn’t comical at all, but a matter of life or death. Dotty Kemper’s life or death, for starters.
For an hour, Mostyn watched Bardon sit there on the bed with his eyes closed and his lips barely moving. He had no idea if Bardon had been successful or not.
However not much more time passed when a filmy white shape began forming on the bed next to him. The thing looked as tangible as a stream of smoke from a burning cigarette. Mostyn smiled. Bardon had created a tulpa. Now the question was, could he make the thing solid in time to catch the last flight out of Los Angeles.
The minutes passed into hours. The filmy ghost-like shape didn’t move, nor did it gain any substantial substance. Mostyn looked at the clock. They had but three and a half hours to go before midnight. He glanced at the tulpa and then took a second look. The thing was no longer a smoke-like wraith. It now looked human. In fact, the thing looked a lot like him. The creature was still transparent, but it did have shape and form and looked like his twin.
More minutes slipped by. While Mostyn watched, the tulpa gradually became denser.
“It looks just like you, Mostyn,” Stoppen said.
Mostyn chuckled. “The twin I never had.”
“I think Dr Bardon is almost finished,” Stoppen said. “I can’t see through it anymore.”
“You’re right,” Mostyn agreed.
The tulpa opened its eyes. “Hello Special Agent in Charge Pierce Mostyn, and hello to you, Dr Otto Stoppen.”
“It sounds just like you, Mostyn,” Stoppen exclaimed.
A look of disapproval crossed the creature’s face. “I am not an it. I am a he.”
Mostyn laughed. “He even wants to choose his own pronouns.”
Bardon’s eyes opened. “For all practical purposes, he is you, Pierce, my boy. He is developing his own personality, and will continue to do so.”
“I am ready for this mission,” the tulpa said.
“Very good, Special Agent Mostyn,” Bardon said. “Let us be on our way.”
10
__________
◼︎
Mostyn and Bardon, both in heavy disguise, watched the tulpa board the plane with no problems. Mostyn scanned the airport crowd looking for some sign of the masked man’s henchmen, but saw nothing unusual in the people waiting to get on the plane or in those who were sitting nearby.
“If they’re here,” he whispered to Bardon, “they must be in disguise, too.”
“They may not even be visible,” Bardon whispered back. “It’s also possible no one is here and the Summoner is watching remotely.”
Mostyn nodded. He looked at his watch. Half-past eleven. They’d met the deadline. Once the door to the jet was closed that was it, the tulpa was on his way to New York and Dotty should be released. He clenched his fists. And then he was going after the bastard.
The door to the jetway closed. “Well, Pierce, my boy, let’s head back. We have a lot to talk about.”
Mostyn and Bardon exited the airport and walked out to the parking ramp, where Jones was waiting with the sedan. Once in the car, Bardon began talking.
“Let me bring you up to date, Pierce, my boy. You were drugged when the reports were sent out, and with everything happening…” He lifted his hands. “It will be simpler if I brief you.”
“I can read the details later, sir.”
“Indeed. We ran Mr Cortado and Mr Salzman through our database and all those we have access to. Thanks to Special Agent NicAskill’s photographs, we were also able to run their faces through the databases as well. We got hits all around. Mr Salzman is an experienced con artist. His known aliases are Milton Gray, Gary Salzman, Gray M Salzman, and Shlomo Salzman.”
“What’s his racket?”
“Just about everything, but art fraud seems to be his specialty.”
Mostyn nodded. “Explains why he’s hooked up with Cortado.”
“It does, at least in part. Mr Cortado is also something of a con artist, although nowhere near as successful as Mr Salzman. Mr Cortado is suspected of forging the works of Pilar Hernandez-Vega, Joan Miró, and Leonora Varo.”
“Why only suspected?”
“Because the possible victims, thus far, are not willing to come forward and admit they were conned.”
“I see.”
“He also tried to impersonate the Hungarian artist Lorine Kiss, at a time when Mr Kiss was unable to leave Hungary.”
“I take it he got caught.”
“He did. Mr Cortado had the misfortune of an acquaintance of Kiss’s visit the show, and the woman blew the whistle on him, as you Americans say.”
Mostyn chuckled. “What happened?”
“The scam of course was discovered. The paintings were confiscated and Mr Cortado got five years probation. That’s when he left New York for California.”
“He could do that?”
Bardon shrugged. “He got someone here in California to offer him a job as an art restorer. Bogus, I’m sure. But it worked, and here he is.”
“Very interesting. So what’s with the statues?”
Bardon rubbed his hands together. “Ah, the statues. As near as our science staff can determine they are genuinely made of stone. A type of marble. And they were probably once living beings. At least that is what the sculptors said who examined the statues. They couldn’t be carved. In addition, we lifted fingerprints from the woman.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, That’s how fine the detail is.”
“Amazing.”
“It is.”
“Could you identify her?”
“Yes, because we are able to access the California DMV records and the fingerprints they require for licenses.”
“Is that legal, sir?”
“Need to know, my boy, need to know.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Bardon merely smiled, and went on. “Her name was Fiorella Josephina Flores-Hernández. She lost her job about a year ago, her apartment four months later, and has apparently been homeless the past three or four months.”
“And now she’s dead.”
“Sadly, yes. I asked Special Agent NicAskill and Dr Petrie to talk to her family. Hopefully they’ll have something for us tomorrow.”
“Anything further on the book?”
“We found the high end bookseller in New York. He told us he got the book from a dealer in Munich, who bought it from a rare book collector’s estate. Apparently the children were selling off everything to get cash.”
Mostyn laughed. “The Munich dealer probably got a good price. I can’t believe the heirs weren’t aware of what they had on their hands.”
“I quite agree, my boy. A costly mistake on their part.”
“So how did the book get out here?”
“The New York dealer has a select clientele for certain esoteric items, and one of those clients lived out here. A Beverly Fitzroy McCandless.”
“Where does she live?”
“Not a she, my boy.”
“A man with the name Beverly?”
“Yes,” Bardon replied, with a smile on his face. “Long before the fairer
sex appropriated the name, Beverly was a male name. Quite British, you know.”
“Huh. Learn something new every day. So where does he live?”
“He lives nowhere. He was murdered some three months after he bought the book and the book is missing. Apparently stolen.”
“So we still don’t know who has it.”
“No, we don’t. Although Mr McCandless kept a diary and in the diary recorded getting several phone calls from someone who wanted the book and was willing to offer him a lot of money for it.”
“And his turning down the offer resulted in his death.”
“So it seems, my boy, so it seems.”
“Did you get my people’s reports?”
“Ah, yes, their nosing around the art community. The general consensus is that Mr Cortado arrived in Los Angeles about five years ago. He is considered to be generally good, but not inspired, and did not start being a name until Mr Salzman became his agent. Which just so happens to coincide with our learning about the book.”
“So nothing new, there.”
“Afraid not.”
“Did NicAskill learn anything from Pitkin?”
“The only new piece of information is that Mr Cortado did not create sculpture before meeting Mr Salzman.”
“Interesting. He sure got proficient fast.”
Bardon chuckled. “Indeed he did, my boy. Indeed he did.”
Jones pulled the limo into the hotel garage and stopped by a door. Bardon and Mostyn got out of the vehicle, maintaining their disguises, and walked to a room registered to one Diamond Jim Brady. Once inside, Bardon texted a message on his phone. Two people looking like hotel cleaning staff, moved down the hall. The equipment in the cleaning cart swept the corridor for bugs and spy cameras. When they found none, they texted an all clear back to Bardon.
“Good. We can get out of these disguises,” Bardon said.
“If it’s okay with you, sir, I’ll keep mine on. Just in case.”
Bardon nodded, and removed his. When he was back to looking like himself, he and Mostyn walked to the conference room. Jones had gotten there before them.
“The tulpa boarded the plane,” Bardon told the team. “Now we wait.”
“So we have no idea when or where our masked man will release Dr Kemper?” Baker said.
“Unfortunately, no, Mr Baker, we do not,” Bardon answered.
The OUP director’s phone chimed. He took it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. Bardon turned to Mostyn. “Check your phone, Mr Mostyn. Our tulpa received a text on his phone which we cloned from yours, so you should have it as well.”
Mostyn looked at his phone and read the text. A cloud descended on his face.
“What is it, Boss?” Jones asked.
“The bastard has decided to keep Dotty. It seems he has a further use for her.”
11
__________
◼︎
Mostyn didn’t sleep well in spite of Dr Bardon’s help. All night he dreamed of Dotty, and the dreams weren’t good. Finally, at a quarter past six he got up, showered, and dressed, and went to the conference room. He was surprised to see Dr Bardon there, drinking tea and smoking his pipe.
“Ah, Pierce, my boy, sit down. May I pour you a cup of tea, or do you wish to wait for coffee?”
“I’ll wait for the coffee.” Mostyn took a seat.
“They should be bringing it soon.”
“What are you doing here, sir, if I may ask?”
“Thinking. I’ll be leaving later this morning.”
Mostyn nodded. He knew better than to ask the boss what he was thinking about. If Bardon wanted him to know he’d tell him, and Bardon said nothing. Mostyn got up and went to the window. He looked out over the Los Angeles skyline. Out there somewhere was Dotty Kemper, the ancient book they were after, and the masked man.
“I know what Dotty means to you, Pierce. However, the book is the top priority.”
Mostyn turned and faced his boss. “Do you, sir?” Mostyn kept his voice steady.
“Yes, Pierce, I do. And I care about her, as well. Not in the same manner as you, but I do care. I am human, Pierce. Sometimes, all too human. I understand your feelings. I have lived and loved too.”
Mostyn took a deep breath and exhaled. “The mission first. Yes, sir, I understand.” Mostyn turned back to look out the window.
In a moment, Bardon was standing next to him. “This job we do is very difficult. Very difficult. There are days when I would like nothing better than to walk away and spend the remainder of my time on this lovely planet reading novels, drinking port and tea, and smoking my pipe.”
“Truly, sir?”
“Yes, Pierce, truly.” Bardon put his hand on Mostyn’s shoulder. “We have, however, a higher calling.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door opened and in came Jones, NicAskill, and Dr Stoppen, followed by the hotel staff person with the breakfast cart.
“Good morning, Los Angeles!” Jones said. “And to you, Dr Bardon, and to you, Boss.”
Mostyn and Bardon turned around, and at the same time said, “Jones.” They extended morning greetings to the others and took their seats at the table. When the cart was empty and the staff person was wheeling it away, the remaining team members arrived.
Bardon stood and indicated everyone still standing should take a seat. “I’ll be leaving shortly. Your mission is, firstly, to find the book and, secondly, to retrieve Dr Kemper. I’ve briefed Special Agent in Charge Mostyn on the things he missed while drugged. I have confidence you’ll succeed, and look forward to your return. I leave the briefing in Special Agent Mostyn’s very capable hands.” The director wished everyone a good day and left.
Mostyn stood and while walking to the head of the table couldn’t help but think that the director’s eyes had lingered a moment on Dr Stoppen as he wished everyone a good day. Then again, given his present mood, he could have just been imagining it.
“As Dr Bardon said, he briefed me on what’s been happening. Did he say anything to you, while I was out of action?”
“Nope,” Jones said. “Told us you’d fill us in.”
“Very well.” Mostyn went on and told his team what Bardon had told him the night before. When he finished, he entertained questions.
NicAskill was first. “Cortado didn’t carve those statues. That I think is obvious. Even without the opinion of the geeks in the lab. So the question is, how did those people get turned to stone? Does this have something to do with the book we’re looking for?”
“The answer to your second question, Agent NicAskill,” Dr Stoppen said, “is very likely. Dr Bardon believes there is a ritual in the book which will summon or create a Gorgon.”
“What’s that?” Jones asked.
“The Medusa?” Stoppen said.
“You mean that woman who was so butt ugly she turned people to stone?” Jones asked.
Stoppen, a smile on his face, said, “That’s one way of putting it.”
“So what you’re telling us,” NicAskill said, “is that we’re dealing with a mythological creature here.”
Stoppen nodded. “That’s what Dr Bardon believes. Only it isn’t a myth.”
“Let me get this straight,” Jones said. “There’s a butt ugly woman running around LA turning people to stone. Like those statues we found in the art gallery.”
“That’s what he’s saying,” Hammerschmidt said.
“Yes,” Stoppen confirmed. “Whoever has the book, has created or unleashed a Gorgon.”
NicAskill sat back in her chair and muttered, “Well I’ll be damned.”
“Why the hell didn’t he tell us this to begin with?” Dr Petrie asked.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Dr Stoppen,” Mostyn said. “It’s because Bardon wasn’t sure. Our discovery of the statues confirmed his suspicion.”
Stoppen nodded.
“Any other questions?” Mostyn asked. When no one replied, he continued, “Okay, let’s move on. NicAskill and Dr Petri
e, you spoke with the family of Fiorella Flores-Hernández?”
“We did,” NicAskill said.
“And it’s a good thing we know Spanish,” Petrie added.
“What did you find out?” Mostyn asked.
“Fiorella lost her job thirteen months ago,” NicAskill began. “She was a secretary at FAZ Logistics. She was unable to find another job and her roommate kicked her out when she didn’t pay the rent. She lived with her parents in Avocado Heights, but she wore out her welcome and started staying with extended family and friends until she pretty much wasn’t welcomed anywhere. At that point she ended up staying in the parks downtown.”
“And disappeared,” Petrie said. “Her family lost contact with her.”
“Until she showed up at an art exhibit as a statue,” NicAskill added, and after a pause said, “Her mother gave us a picture so we could find her. They, her mother and father, feel terribly guilty. They feel they should have had more patience with her.”
Mostyn looked out the window. Like so many homeless, he thought, she ends up in the big city. The cold, cruel, heartless city. Dotty’s somewhere in this city.
His eyes took in the buildings and the streets. In the distance he saw two jets. His mind drifted to the masked man. The Chinese-looking mask. The Chinese robe he wore. The voice.
He turned back to his team sitting around the table, watching him. “He’s Chinese. The masked man is Chinese. Maybe originally from Hong Kong. Dr Stoppen, I’d like you and Willie Lee to visit every antique bookstore in LA.”
“We can do that. I know who all the important dealers are.”
“Good. Find out every scrap of gossip about the book that you can. Report back here by seven tonight. The rest of us are going to Chinatown.”
***
Mostyn sent Jones and Hammerschmidt to the north end of Chinatown with instructions to work their way south. NicAskill and Petrie were to begin at the opposite end and move north, the two teams meeting somewhere in the middle.
