by R. L. King
Blum shrugged. “Easier to get all the mystical horseshit out of the way right away so we can work on the real stuff.” He snorted. “I’m gonna go get a cup of coffee while you guys commune with the spirit world. Anybody else want one?”
Stone was tempted despite Blum’s rudeness—even with his curiosity in full flower, he could still feel the tug of fatigue like a warm, heavy animal crouching on his head. But right now, he was more interested in getting a look at whatever was inside the chest. “Thank you, no.”
Muttering something about crackpots, Blum stalked off.
Stone ignored him. He was used to that sort of thing, and didn’t take it personally. Instead, he turned back to Timmons and Vasquez. “So—any chance of getting a look inside?”
“Yeah, sure. So it’s safe to step into that thing now?”
Stone glanced at the other items in the locker—a wooden cabinet on one side, its doors open to reveal a collection of materials that might be used in rituals, and a bookshelf containing stacks of books and papers on the other. “Even assuming I believed in this sort of thing, it’s clear that circle has been rendered inert. See, he’s fallen across the items arranged around it. Try not to move the rest of them, though. I assume you’ve got a good selection of photographs?”
“Oh, yeah—from every angle.” Timmons pulled on gloves and gingerly stepped inside the circle. As Stone had directed, he made sure not to step on or move any of the objects around the perimeter. He crouched in front of the chest. “This is a really old lock—but look, it’s popped open. Doesn’t look like it’s been cut or anything. Why would the guy leave this big chest in the middle of something like this, but not lock it?”
That was a good question, and Stone didn’t have an immediate answer. He focused his concentration on Timmons, ready to protect him if something leaped out of the chest. If need be, he was prepared to put up a shield, but he hoped that wouldn’t be necessary since it would be difficult to explain—and it would tax his waning power. “Go ahead and open it.”
Timmons slipped the lock off, slid it inside a plastic bag he pulled from his pocket, then set it aside. “Okay, here goes. If anything jumps out of here, no promises about messing up the circle.”
“Or your shorts,” Vasquez said with a snicker.
Timmons ignored her. With a care suggesting he did expect something to jump out, he took hold of the chest’s top and eased it open.
Stone leaned forward a little, shifting back to magical sight.
Nothing jumped out. In fact, nothing happened at all. Timmons pushed the lid up until it stood open on its own, then peered inside.
“Anything?” Stone asked. He couldn’t see inside the chest from where he stood, but magical sight revealed nothing interesting.
“Empty,” Timmons said, shaking his head in amazement. “Whatever was in here—oh. Hold on a sec. There is one thing.” He reached inside.
Stone stepped closer, trying to get a look. So did Vasquez.
Timmons pulled out a small object and held it up, shining his flashlight on it. He stepped out of the circle to allow his companions a better look. “This is it. Nothing else inside.”
Stone studied the object. It was small, about the size of a chess piece, made of some kind of black material with gold veins running through it. Whatever it was, it was clearly broken: a crack ran horizontally through its middle, and it had two small indentations that had probably held its “eyes.” To magical sight, it looked inert and dead.
“What is it?” Vasquez asked. “A chess piece? It looks broken. No more of them in there?”
“Nope, that’s all I saw,” Timmons said. “Go ahead and get some photos of the inside, but don’t mess up the circle.”
As Vasquez pulled out her camera and began to take photos, Timmons waved Stone aside with him. He held up the tiny object. “Any ideas?”
“I’ve never seen anything like that.” Stone studied it more closely, focusing on the general design and the space where the eyes had been. “I don’t think it’s a chess piece, though. And it looks quite old.” He nodded toward the cabinet and the shelves. “Have you examined those yet?”
“Not in depth. You can take a look if you want, but I can’t let you touch anything yet.”
Stone took one final glance at the item to make sure it wasn’t starting to glow, but he was reasonably sure it wouldn’t. Whatever it was, it looked as if it had fulfilled its purpose and died. Had that purpose had anything to do with what had happened to Frank Gallegos? He didn’t know yet.
He went to the cabinet first. It didn’t contain much; in fact, most of what was inside looked like more of the same items used to construct the circle: paint, dried herbs, sand, candles, and crystals. None of the items lit up on magical sight, which didn’t surprise Stone: most common circle components didn’t have inherent magical properties. They didn’t do their thing until after they’d been arranged in the right configuration and exposed to power.
One odd thing he did notice about the area, though, which he’d also noticed when he’d first looked at the circle: a ley line ran through it. That wasn’t uncommon—single ley lines ran through a lot of places. But he did wonder if the locker’s owner—its original owner, not the speculator—had known that. He guessed he or she did, since ley lines were useful in sustaining circles for longer durations. This one was a good one, well-constructed and solid. It had clearly been meant to protect and conceal whatever was inside that chest.
Had Frank Gallegos managed to open it and see what was inside before he’d been skeletonized? And what had skeletonized him, if the circle itself hadn’t been designed for it?
He wanted to get a good look at whatever was on the bookshelf on the other side of the locker, but first he had questions. “Detective—do you know who the previous owner of this storage locker was?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think it’ll help. It’s some guy back east. The facility manager says he never paid the bill, and he thinks the original owner died and left it to him. It’ll probably be tomorrow before we find out.”
“All right. And one more question: was Mr. Gallegos working alone, or did he have partners in his speculation business?”
“He had a brother, Ralph, who usually goes to these things with him.”
“And where is he now?”
“We’re trying to locate him. We—” He paused as his phone buzzed in his pocket, and held up a hand. “Excuse me—I need to take this.”
He stepped out of the locker and walked off down the hall, turning his back on the scene. Stone moved back inside and watched Vasquez as she took more photos of the chest, the circle, and the body.
It wasn’t long before Timmons returned. As he drew up next to Stone, he said nothing.
Stone glanced at him, surprised to see that his expression looked oddly still. “Something wrong, Detective?”
“Yeah.” Speaking louder so Vasquez could hear too, he said in a dull tone, “That was the captain. He said they just got a call about a couple of screaming kids running down the street over in Daly City. At first nobody could get ’em to say anything coherent, but when the cops finally got ’em calmed down, they said their dad had murdered their whole family, and they’d barely managed to get away.”
“Holy shit,” Vasquez said. “That’s awful. But Daly City? Why are they calling us? We’ve already got a—”
“Yeah.” He swallowed, and his gaze cut away for a moment to the body on the floor.
Stone tensed, already suspecting he knew where this was going.
“The kids weren’t talking much, but they finally got names out of ’em,” Timmons said in the same stunned monotone. “Richie and Daisy Gallegos. Ralph’s son and daughter.”
4
Bloody hell.” Stone let his breath out slowly, glancing back toward the chest. “Have they got him in custody?”
“No. He’s still out there somewhere. They’ll have units all over town looking, though. He won’t hide for long.”
Stone wond
ered if that was true. He also wondered if Ralph was even alive any longer. He looked at the chest again, and then at the body. “You said you think someone stepped on Frank’s back. Do you think Ralph was with him here when he found this?”
“That’s a damn good question, Dr. Stone.” Timmons looked suddenly tired. “And the answer is, we don’t know for certain—but it makes sense that he was. They usually checked out these places together, apparently. The boot indentation on Frank’s back is about the right size for an adult male. We found traces of urine on the floor near the door, and also around the footprint. That, and when we got here I thought it was odd that their truck wasn’t here. Somebody must have taken it, and my money’s on Ralph.”
“Mine as well,” Stone said. “It also could answer another question I had: when you found Frank, was the locker open like this, or was it closed?”
“Closed and locked. We found out Frank was here when the facility manager called. Frank’s wife called the guy—she was worried when Frank didn’t come home for dinner and she couldn’t reach his cell phone. The guy noticed the light under the door and popped it open with the wife’s permission, then called us when he found…” He gestured toward the scene. “He’s pretty freaked out. Couple of our guys are talking to him in the office.”
Stone pondered, staring at the chest, body, and circle without really seeing them. “I’d like to take a look at what’s on those shelves, if you don’t mind. I won’t touch anything—although it might be useful at some point to have a look at everything once it’s been catalogued.”
“You think you’re gonna find magical writings or something?” Vasquez asked. “Evil spells and incantations?” She still sounded like she thought the whole business was hogwash, though she was professional enough that her tone didn’t quite reach mocking.
“I won’t know if I don’t look, will I?” Stone replied, refusing to be baited. “Detective?”
“Sure, go ahead and take a look. The coroner’s coming any minute to take the body away, then we’ll let the CSIs in to finish processing the rest of the scene. I need to go talk to the people investigating Ralph’s family’s murder.”
Stone was already at the bookcase, shining his flashlight over the spines of books and the various papers he could see without moving anything. “How many were killed?”
“Three. Ralph’s wife, his nineteen-year-old son, and his mother.” Timmons shook his head. “Horrible situation—I guess if there’s any bright spot to it, it’s that the kids got out. But they’re gonna be in therapy for years over this.”
Stone was barely listening to the detective’s last words as he continued scanning the books and papers. As he’d suspected, the books suggested that whoever the original owner of the locker was, he or she was a mage—and surprisingly, probably a rather benign one. Many of the books’ titles weren’t in English, but Stone was at least passingly familiar with most of the languages they were in. They were standard magical texts, mostly reference books. None of them, as far as he could tell, were valuable, rare, or dangerous. Likewise, the papers contained notes written in the pseudo-Latin language many mages used, along with diagrams and sigils. From what Stone could see, they looked like standard ritual notes. Again, nothing nefarious. This place looked like the storage facility of a boring magical researcher. “Detective?”
“Yes?”
“When you find out more about the person who originally had this locker, please let me know.”
“Why?”
“I have some contacts in the occult community, and whoever this person was, they were clearly connected with the community. I might be able to help you find out more about him or her.”
“Sure, no problem.” Timmons came over and examined the items on the shelf. “Can you read that stuff?”
“Most of it, yes.”
“Is it connected with the chest at all?”
“Not from what I can see—but of course, I can’t see much without moving anything.”
Leo Blum came back in. “You people done playin’ Doctor Strange and the Magical Mystery Tour yet? The CSIs are here and they want to get on with processin’ this stuff.”
Timmons let out a sigh. “Yeah, I don’t think there’s much else we can do here. Dr. Stone, no point in you staying any longer tonight. I’ll see if I can get you permission to look over the books and papers if you think it’ll help. And I’d appreciate any other help you can give us about the guy who set this up.”
“Happy to be of assistance, Detective.”
He followed the detective out, Leo Blum trailing behind them. On the way back to the parking lot, they passed several men and women carrying crime-scene kits.
“They’re gonna have a long night,” Timmons said. “But not as long as the guys who’ll have to process Ralph’s house. Anyway, thanks again, Dr. Stone. We really appreciate your help.”
He shook Stone’s hand and walked off toward the white sedan.
Stone was about to head to his own car when Blum spoke up. “Hey, Stone, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“What about?” Stone wasn’t in the mood for another mocking diatribe about how the supernatural world was a farce and anybody who believed in it was an idiot or a shyster. Right now, all he wanted was to get back home before he fell asleep and get in a few hours of rest so he’d be coherent for his class tomorrow. He kept walking toward his car.
Blum caught up with him. When they reached the car, he looked back and forth as if checking to see if anybody was watching. Timmons had already driven off, and nobody else was paying any attention to them as they scurried in and out of the building doing their work. “Listen,” he said. “I need to talk to you, but not here. You want to go get a cup of coffee or somethin’?”
Stone narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Blum, I’m sorry, but I’m quite tired and I’d like to get home. Perhaps some other time—?”
“It won’t take long.” Blum leaned in closer, glancing again at the others, and lowered his voice. “I know who you are. I know what you are. And I think if you’re gonna be helpin’ out with this case, I might be able to help you.”
5
Stone, fatigue momentarily forgotten and curiosity piqued, followed Blum’s beat-up old Honda to a coffee shop a couple miles up the road.
The cop had refused to say anything else at the storage facility, and had looked even more nervous at Stone’s questions. “Just come with me, okay? I promise it won’t take long.”
After they’d settled into a back booth and Stone had ordered the strongest cup of coffee the place had to offer, he leaned back and regarded Blum. “What did you mean, you know who I am? And more to the point, that you know what I am?”
Blum seemed more comfortable here, but he’d still made a point to take the seat facing back into the restaurant so he could keep an eye on the other diners. “I know you’re a mage. A real one.”
Stone tilted his head. “Oh?”
“Yeah. That’s why I insisted they call you in on this case—I’m pretty convinced it’s the real deal. Aren’t you?”
“And…how do you know all of this, Mr. Blum?” Stone kept his voice neutral and noncommittal. He’d had people try to draw him out before, but usually the attempts were clumsier than this. He shifted to magical sight; Blum’s aura was blue-green and, except for a few patches indicating agitation, looked relatively undisturbed. “I thought you were convinced that the supernatural was the province of fools and charlatans.”
“Mostly it is. You know that as well as I do. But I also know about the other stuff. The stuff that isn’t.” He leaned across the table a little and met Stone’s gaze, swiping a hand across his crooked nose. “I’ve got it in the family.”
“Ah.” That explained it. If Blum was telling the truth, he was apparently one of those mundanes who’d been born into a magical family without inheriting any of his own. It happened a lot, since magic only passed between same-gender parents and children, and in most cases was notoriously spotty even then. It wasn’t at all
unusual for two or three generations to pass before the Talent expressed again.
“Yeah. My mom and grandma were both mages. They kept it on the down-low—hell, Mom was an accountant before she retired—but I grew up around it, and I try to keep up with the news from the community when I can.”
“So your skepticism—”
“It’s all an act,” Blum confirmed. “I dunno if you know what happens to cops who start believing in witches and fairy dust, but it ain’t pretty. But I try to keep an eye out for any cases that might involve real magic. And I’d bet my next three paychecks this is one of ’em. Am I right?” He took a long drink from his cup and fixed Stone with a challenging glance.
“Er—yes. You’re right. There’s definitely magic involved.” Stone was still having trouble getting his mind around the fact that skeptical Blum was the believer of the crew. He must be more tired than he thought.
“So that circle was the real deal?”
“Absolutely. Are you familiar with ley lines?”
“Oh, yeah.” He frowned. “There was one going through there?”
“Yes. Just one, but enough to sustain something that small and single-purpose.”
Blum stared down into his coffee. “So—do you think that circle did…what happened…to that guy Frank?”
“No. As I said, it was a protective circle.” Despite his fatigue, Stone found it refreshing to be able to talk to a policeman about a magical crime without holding back any information for fear of being thought a crackpot. The last time he’d been able to do that, it had been with Stan Lopez down in Ventura. “It was designed to keep mundanes away from that chest. From the look of things, its purpose was to plant a belief that the chest was uninteresting, and subtly steer anyone who might get curious away.”
“It sure as hell didn’t do that to poor old Frank,” Blum said. “And what about Ralph? Do you think what happened with him was connected too?”
