by Gary Starta
I walked. Then I waded. My ankles, then my knees became submersed in the river--the only thing separating me from Mollini and his magic portal. I slogged along, reminiscent of a dream when you try to walk but your feet are too tangled in the covers to move efficiently. I staggered, the weight of the water, its thrashing current threatened to take me off balance, my calf muscles fought gravity to stay upright, I splashed water in my face in the struggle. And as I fought, my vision began to blur. I couldn’t really tell if it was from the water, or tears. Perhaps from a sick dread-a knowledge that many people would now perish because Mollini had become free. The huge engulfing rolling blue and white wave promised him further escape from my grasps. And as I slogged and sashayed, splashing across the creek like some misbehaving child, the current’s eddy growing more furious with my persistence to cross the water, I unwittingly fed electromagnetic juice to the ring by my fury, my desperation. The ring flashed again, too brilliant to even see, blotting out the landscape in an unrelenting haze of white summer. The waking world and the nether world crisscrossing, blurring, segueing into something I could only feel as evil. My enhanced senses were working in full force now. I could read the ring. And as an empath, I couldn’t sense malice in its design. It was just a tool, a tool Mollini could somehow manipulate. And it was his pure evil I now felt. With my fists balled in rage, sitting fully upright on my couch (Celeste submersed in a pillow taking shelter from my mania) I declared war had begun.
“I have to stop him.” I said it several times aloud finally making my way, in a zigzag fashion, to my computer desk. The laptop, thankfully left in standby mode, immediately gave me full Internet access. I searched for any information on Matawan. I found sharks had indeed inhabited the area back in 1916. Their strange appearance had shocked residents and taken a few lives in the process. Additionally, this was the area where Mollini might work further magic to elude capture. I had no doubt. Nevertheless, I seriously had doubts about my navigational skills. I dashed back to the few unpacked boxes stacked upon my dining room table. I emptied the contents on the floor, spilling them and splattering them about, causing a ruckus, sending Celeste into a scattered dance of panic. And I found it: A compass. At least it would be a start. Direction. Navigation. Topography. Who could help my geographically challenged mind?
A man’s face popped before me. Not a vision, but a memory. He had been Geoffrey’s friend. A real nerd of a guy, fascinated with factoids and manuals more than sports bars and chicks. What’s his name? As I prayed for recall, I remembered I had answered my own prayer in a sense. I had transferred all of my contact and address names from my overly frayed day planner into a file. Geoffrey had helped. Damn it. Correction: He had done it--all of it. I hadn’t. If he had waited for me, it would have never been done. Geoffrey had been great in destroying any lapses of laziness I immersed myself in. Of course, I didn’t label it laziness. I called it something more respectable: procrastination, as in haste makes waste. Geoffrey never bought my excuses. Nonetheless, the memory pained me. No doubt about it. I still miss him. I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye as my computer searched for the file. Geoffrey labeled it “the little black book you’ll probably never remember to use.” When it popped open, I immediately scrolled to the ‘S’ section. Some hint of memory told me his last name began with S. Yes. Sweeney. That was it. Douglas Sweeney. We’d had had drinks together, the three of us about three years ago. I grabbed my cell from my desk drawer and thumb punched his number into the faceplate. As it rang, I hoped he would recall my voice. I didn’t want to spend an hour of small talk reacquainting myself.
Thankfully he recalled. Maybe more than I cared for.
“Hey, Diggsy, what’s shaking? Did you get my sympathy card? I’m sorry I couldn’t make Geoffrey’s funeral.”
As he rambled, I recalled why Geoffrey ribbed him so hard about being the ultimate nerd loner. Guys, remember this: adding a ‘y’ to a woman’s last name probably won’t score you many points, in fact, calling a woman by her last name probably won’t score you any points.
But I wasn’t about to reprimand him about calling me ‘Diggsy.”
Lives were in the balance.
I awkwardly tried to move the conversation from Douglas’s lame attempt at apology to the odd, paranormal subject at hand without tipping him off about the strange ring-shaped portal in the process.
I lied, telling him I was investigating a man who supposedly runs scams along the Jersey shore. Not too hard to believe if I do say so myself.
“Gee Diggsy, you got the grand life. Investigating people in resort areas; basking in the sunlight while playing the hard boiled gum shoe.”
I had to pause and wonder if people in real life ever emoted in such a manner. I guess men holed up in basements, spending way too much time thinking about Dungeons & Dragons--wishing they knew enough fellow nerds to actually role play the fantasy game themselves--could probably talk like they were scripting dialogue from a 1940’s detective movie.
I batted my eyes in frustration and breathed, attempting a breathy voice, the kind of voice you might hear from a dame whose playing sweetheart to that hardboiled gumshoe in that 1940’s detective movie.
“Why of course, Douglas. It is a grand life. The designer costumes, the fancy getups I get to hide in. Why sometimes I feel like a Bond girl, all dolled up like that. And the shades I wear, why one man confused me for Angelina just the other day.”
He paused, probably fantasizing about me dressing up for him. Or, most likely, fantasizing about Angelina Jolie; either way it disturbed me.
“Yes, you live quite the life, sweets,” he continued. “I just wish I could grab a dog with Geoffrey now and then. I miss him his wisecracking ass every now and then.” And then he paused, it sounded almost like an exclamation point of silence on the other end. “Oh, but Diggsy I loved sharing the dinners with you too.” Ah yes. The “dinners”. Finger food. Onion rings. Fried calamari. I guess for a shut in, probably living on peanut butter and Fritos, this type of fare might be considered gourmet.
But again I reminded Douglas of the time sensitive nature of my case. If anybody could get me exact coordinates for the shark attacks of 1916, he could. I had to figure that’s where this portal would be opening. That’s why I had been shown a shark in the vision. It all made sense. Damn, it better had, because it’s all of the deductive reasoning I could come up with after drinking murky artificially colored green liquid and falling face first on the floor.
Douglas had access to all sorts of topographical maps, not to mention Doppler radar, working for the National Weather Service. And when he wasn’t tracking storms, I recalled he spent the lion’s share of his off time writing fantasy books. That’s about the only thing I remember from our “dinners” other than sending back a plate of lukewarm zucchini sticks. Geoffrey once joked that Douglas wrote fantasy novels faster than agents could reject them. I knew he had time on his hands. I also knew he liked me, especially now that I was single again. So I played my card. Continued speaking in that breathy voice until he promised he would find those coordinates tout suite. I gave him my cell and a promise of another “dinner”… soon. And in return he invited me to join his Yahoo Group called “Weather Mates.” I said I would enjoy learning weatherman lingo and perhaps I could learn a thing or two about radar. Actually, I mentioned the radar hoping Douglas might use it to not only locate the exact coordinates of the portal, but also to tell me exactly when Mollini might open it. I could only hope that the frequency modulation caused by the rift would present a meteorological presence. If I recalled my vision correctly, the white out effect might literally equate itself with a white tornado. In any event, I couldn’t risk tipping off Douglas about my vision. I couldn’t alert him of the real investigation I would be conducting: that my manhunt would have little to do with capturing a man.
Demon... Mollini had to be demon. So how would I stop him? I had experienced a recent bout of telekinesis. I had stopped the President from plunging a knife int
o an Iranian official earlier this year. Yet I couldn’t recall how I willed that to happen. I would have to sort that all out later. First, I would have to figure a way to transport myself to Matawan, New Jersey--before Mollini got there.
And when Stanford Carter’s call interrupted me, I just knew that little detail would take care of itself.
Six
We both commiserated, feeling self-righteous at times. Scratch that--the whole time, we felt self-righteous the whole time; then we realized we had better come up with a plan because a soul stealing demon was on the loose.
The first few minutes of my phone conversation with Stanford Carter were self indulgent I had to admit. We weren’t just two veteran detectives bitching about how the big one got away. We had valid arguments for being outright cranky. How the hell could someone let a man capable of hypnotizing victims to willingly commit suicide, find a means to fuel his evil pastime? In other words, how could one wittingly lay out an all-you-can-eat human buffet?
We mulled it over. And we decided not even Warden Val Garrity could be that dumb.
“He promised me no more yard privileges for Mollini, no matter how much he behaved himself,” Carter recounted. “And no more than a minimum of two prison guards were ever in close vicinity, to become, well let’s just say, victims to his sick power of persuasion…”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure he stuck to those protocols.” I half mumbled the words as if I too had fallen under Mollini’s spell. “I don’t think Warden Garrity’s to blame, Stanford. This had to be an outside job.”
“Caitlin, I’m pretty open minded. But what are the chances…?”
“You mean what are the chances that another human with paranormal abilities exists? Well, ta-dah, I’m your living proof.”
Carter laughed weakly. “I suppose you are. But you’re not evil. And if another person possessed the means to help Mollini escape, why wait until now?”
I couldn’t answer that. As far I knew, the existence of demonic evil in the real world could be chalked up to nothing more than blind chance, perhaps a genetic mutation. I had witnessed the late director of the FBI Connah Hainsworth perform some heinous acts--including setting up my partner Geoffrey. His phony sting operation cost my Geoffrey his life. But while Hainsworth--the reincarnation of occultist Aleister Crowley--had been quite capable of unconscionable evil, he had limited powers. Crowley had implored Hainsworth to use psychotropic drugs to aid his demonic crusade as a means to an end because Crowley--in Hainsworth’s body--hadn’t perfected his magic to bring about the end time without a crutch. A magician had turned to science--fringe science no less--to further his agenda. In this case, using a biochemical weapon to bring about chaos. They had planned to end the world so Crowley could absorb enough power to unlock a heaven’s gate he called the Golden Means Spiral. He came to me in a dream, imploring me to help release humanity from its stagnant existence and give every man, woman and child a new life in a shiny new heaven. He also told me I could help open his precious gate, leading all of humanity through it, as I was the supposed reincarnation of the Egyptian Goddess Isis.
What an honor. I would have helped to kill more people than all history’s evil dictators combined. Of course, I didn’t assist him. So that led me to my next assumption: Sometimes evil needs assistance. Mollini needed assistance, but from whom? And I tended to doubt the ring I had seen in my vision led to Crowley’s Golden Means Spiral. Mollini didn’t seem like the religious type anyway. So now I had to add another question to my detective laundry list. Where was Mollini going? Yet I couldn’t share this with Carter. And this pained me. I never had been dishonest or--come to think of it--anywhere near less than forthcoming with this saint of a man. I held the greatest respect for him. Nevertheless, I couldn’t share my vision. I just had to find a way to get to my destination in time.
Before I knew it, Carter began to give me my means to get there.
He would hire me as a PI to be a consultant to the FBI. I told him the likelihood of my having a vision in pursuit of a fugitive might be nil, yet he didn’t care half as much about my psychic ability as my intuitive one. Reminding me I had been the Bureau’s top agent for over a decade without the aid of one vision, Carter instilled confidence in me instantaneously. I had to love him for that, platonically speaking. He urged me get ready and quick. A taxi would be pulling up to my drive any minute. Inside would be an FBI Special Agent, a man named Charley Grant from the Boston office. Carter had asked the agent to take me along on a plane ride headed due south. Officials believed Mollini would continue his southerly flight, having fled from Massachusetts to Rhode Island. I would provide some kind of psychic insight along the way--or what Carter describes as my keen intuition--giving Grant some idea where Mollini might falter, become weak and allow the FBI to assemble a S.W.A.T. team to make a stand. Sounds good on paper, but it was a human plan.
And I knew we weren’t fighting a human. I had just faced an incubus and his psychotic half-breed son. They had toyed with me. That knowledge took some edge off my guilt. I couldn’t let Carter know about my vision. He would be compelled as a decent human being to share this with Grant. And then a bloodbath would most likely ensue.
Mollini would find a way to turn the Bureau’s conventional weapons against them just as he had done to dozens of unfortunate prison guards. After putting the call on speaker, I kicked off my slippers and shed my cut off jeans and baggy T-shirt. Racing to my closet, I yanked out a forest green halter-top with waist ties and a pair of black Capri pants. Then, hopping about on one foot, I slipped into my favorite footgear, New Balance black and silver running shoes. Maybe not the best outfit for capturing a demon. In fact, I don’t think a suit of armor would provide enough protection. However, I did note that Charley Grant was a male and showing some skin might not be a bad idea, especially when I would obviously be trying to mislead him and sex was about the best misdirection womankind had at their ready disposal.
Dressed and waiting for my ride, I continued to bellyache to Carter about Mollini’s powers. He had never been able to take down more than one victim at a time. Yet now, waylaying dozens of citizens and police at will, he had eluded the most elaborate checkpoint system. All major roads--including I-95 South--had mandatory checkpoints set up under the guise of the Stay Alive, Drive Sober campaign. Well, police were catching impaired drivers, but not the man most capable of impairing humans--without the aid of liquor. So I had to believe that Mollini could either change form or somehow alter human’s perception. Maybe he hid in the light spectrum invisible to the naked human eye. I recalled my vision, unable to fathom how the ring had suddenly shimmered into existence. Perhaps the same magic had been responsible.
These were all concerns I could mull over on the plane ride. Right now, I realized I had a more immediate problem. Celeste. Who would watch her? Carter comforted me immediately, homing in on my concern as if telepathic. “Don’t worry, Caitlin. I’m heading straight for your place as we speak. I’ll take Celeste to my apartment. She’ll be in good hands.”
“No doubt,” I said, finding it ironic Carter with Celeste’s aid had captured Mollini. The pressure to right this wrong felt way too consuming for me, this never should have been allowed to happen. So now I wouldn’t be just helping to apprehend a fugitive, I also would be helping to restore some of my good friend’s peace of mind. I knew Carter well enough to hear a shakiness--an uneasy tone in his voice. Mollini’s escape rattled him. Not to mention the ever-mounting casualty list. I suspected Carter felt the deaths were on his hands, though he’d done nothing directly to aid Mollini’s escape. And what he told me next, made me sure of it.
“I’m not a barbarian, Caitlin,” he said, “but sometimes I wish Massachusetts carried the death penalty. If so, we wouldn’t be having this conversation…” He sighed.
Carter had become desperate enough to resort to barbarianism. This meant Mollini’s evil carried enough weight to haunt Carter’s soul. Humans weren’t capable of this--only demons. That
’s what I would repeatedly tell myself to alleviate some of my guilt. A horn blared indicating my ride had arrived.
