by R. L. King
The laughter didn’t stop.
It didn’t get any louder, but merely continued lurking just beneath the music. It was a sort of rolling chuckle, amused but vaguely sinister, as if the laugher knew some unwholesome secret.
Well. This was getting interesting.
He hit the Eject button.
The CD spit out promptly and smoothly like a silvery tongue, but the laughter persisted. It filled the car’s soundproof cabin, issuing from every speaker.
As he reached for the volume knob, he got a quick glimpse of the rearview mirror, and stiffened.
A figure stood behind the car.
Illuminated in one of the area’s few streetlights about twenty feet back, it obviously wasn’t one of the crudely formed creatures that had menaced him previously. This one was tall, thin and wore a long, sweeping coat and an oddly-shaped hat. Stone couldn’t see its face clearly, but its eyes glowed with faint red pinpoints. Locking eyes with it for a moment, he thought he saw it smile.
His heartbeat picking up again, he whipped around in his seat, intending to get a better look at it.
The area beneath the streetlight was empty, the street deserted except for his own car.
He turned back around, gripped the steering wheel for a moment, and once more pulled out into the lane. Glancing up at the rearview mirror again, he saw no sign of the figure. Even so, he couldn’t resist the temptation to check over his shoulder to make sure it wasn’t sitting in his back seat like some horror-movie cliché.
It wasn’t, but it didn’t need to be. The image was clear in his mind.
“All right,” he said to the empty seat. “So that’s the way you want to play it, do you?”
The figure he’d seen in the mirror was the same one he’d seen in Raider’s vision of Dennis Avila’s last night alive.
Chapter Twenty-One
Stone had no idea how Dr. Maria Alvarez, professor of history with a specialization in northern California, would react to him showing up at her office late morning the next day.
Or, to be fair, if she’d even remember him.
It had been several years since they’d dated, and even then it had been a short relationship ending in the usual flurry of weirdness that commonly sent his potential girlfriends exiting, stage left. He hadn’t spoken to her in years, and had heard from mutual friends that she’d gotten married in the meantime.
He shouldn’t have been concerned. “Alastair!” she greeted him with a smile when he appeared in her doorway. “What a surprise!”
“Hello, Maria. So good to see you. You’re looking well.” She was: she’d gained a little weight and changed her hairstyle to something a bit less “hot young professor” and a bit more “soccer mom,” but she wore the new look well. He glanced at her hand: apparently the rumors about her marriage were true. “How have you been?”
“Oh, busy,” she said, waving at the stacks of books and papers piled on her desk. Her smile turned knowing. “What can I do for you? I know you didn’t just show up for a social call after all this time.”
“Hey, I’m giving the ‘small talk’ thing a go,” he said. “I deserve a bit of credit for that, don’t you think?”
“Don’t quit your day job,” she said. “So—what’s up?”
“I’m looking for some information—something I hope you can either help me find, or point me to someone who can.” He glanced around the office, taking in the large framed map of old California on one wall and the collection of Native American and Mexican artifacts arranged on a table next to an overflowing bookshelf. The grouping of framed photos on her credenza showed her with a smiling dark-haired man and a pair of young children. Even before she’d broken it off with Stone, he’d had reservations about their future due to her obvious longing to settle down and start a family. She’d gotten what she wanted, then—good for her.
She tilted her head. “This doesn’t have anything to do with that murder case I heard you were consulting on, does it?”
Well, he’d never been known for dating stupid women. But had everyone on the bloody campus heard about his extracurricular activities? “So you know about that, then.”
“I read the paper,” she said. “And you don’t exactly have one of those common names that’s easy to confuse with somebody else.”
He sighed. “Guilty. Yes, it might be tangentially related. I’m actually off the case now, but bits of it are still intriguing me, so I’m doing some digging on my own.”
“How can I possibly help with that?” she asked.
“Do you remember all those years ago when you tracked down the history of a piece of land in San Jose?”
Maria arched an eyebrow. “I remember you lied to me about why you wanted it…”
She had a good memory, too. “Yes…well, I need the same sort of thing. I’m not lying about it this time, since I’m not worried about you showing me the door if you decide I’m barking mad.” He nodded toward the photos. “Congratulations on your marriage, by the way.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Thanks. Only five years late, but hey, who’s counting? So, what’s this piece of land, and why do you want to know about it?”
“As I said, if it’s related at all, it’s tangential.” Okay, so he was lying again, but he couldn’t very well tell her the whole truth. If she let it slip to anyone else, he could cause himself a lot of trouble for not sharing his findings with the police. “I need to know the history of a piece of land in Milpitas.” He gave her the address. “It’s currently a construction site where they’re building a load of monstrously ugly houses. I want to know what it was before that.”
“How long before that?”
“No idea,” he said, shrugging. “Not recently. If you could give me everything from about a hundred years ago and back as far as you’re willing to go, that would be lovely.”
She chuckled. “You don’t want much, do you?”
“You asked. I’d offer to take you out to dinner, but that doesn’t seem proper these days. And you’ll forgive me, but I’m rubbish around small children, so that leaves out a family outing. Lunch?”
She shook her head with an exasperated sigh. “Alastair, you’re…something. I’m not sure what, exactly, but at least you’re honest. Okay, I’ll see what I can do. When do you need it?”
“Whenever you can get it to me. I’ve got a couple of other angles to pursue, but it would be a big help.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
Stone paused. He wasn’t going to say anything, but then he remembered that nobody but Johnny Cheng had even suspected a connection between Dennis Avila’s mysterious box and the murders. He decided to take a chance. “There is one other thing, yes.”
She waited, tapping her pen on the desk.
“Suppose someone were to find a...a sort of interesting object, buried underground. What might become of it?”
She leaned forward, more interest showing now. “Did somebody find something on this job site? Did you? Is that why you’re trying to find out its history?”
“Well…yes. Not me, though,” he added hastily as her gaze sharpened on him like a hawk sighting a tasty mouse. “Just a rumor I heard, that one of the workers found it. It’s supposed to be a box, about this big—” he indicated the dimensions with his hands “—made of stone, and decorated with carvings of crosses, priests, angels…that sort of thing. The man who found it committed suicide, and I’m fairly sure the authorities suspect he found it on the job that day and brought it home, rather than it being something he’d owned beforehand.” It would have been easier if he could show her the photos he had, but then he’d have to explain where he’d gotten them.
“Wait,” she said, holding up a hand and looking confused. “You said this guy committed suicide? What’s that got to do with people getting dismembered?”
“Probably nothing,” Stone said. “Just
following a hunch. Since the guy killed himself, I’m guessing they wouldn’t need the box for evidence. So what would they do with it, if they thought it had historical significance?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. If they could prove he took it from the site and it wasn’t just something he already owned, probably donate it to one of the public museums, or possibly hand it off to an expert for analysis. If not, it’s probably still in some evidence locker somewhere until they can verify ownership. I can ask around with my colleagues if you like. I’m not sure what I’d use for an excuse for how I knew about it, though. But if it’s as you described, I’d love to take a look at it myself.”
“Well, you might get a chance to, if you can locate it.” Good old scientific curiosity—the weak spot of professors everywhere. “Just please make sure my name doesn’t come up. I’m already getting enough nutters leaving messages on my voicemail wanting to interview me about the occult involvement in the murders.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said again. “And hey, if this box exists and I can get some quality time with it, you might not have to take me to lunch.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Stone had never invited Edwina Mortenson to his home before, and part of him regretted finally breaking the streak. He’d never been to her place, either—in fact, he didn’t even know where she lived, except that it was somewhere in Mountain View. As far as he knew, none of the Occult Studies department saw each other at all outside of campus and the occasional work-related function.
At seven-thirty that evening, Raider remained stubbornly entrenched beneath the armoire. He had come out to eat and had actually used the litterbox rather than the pillow, which Stone supposed could be counted as progress. Stone deliberately avoided the room for now, wanting Mortenson to get an unvarnished view of the cat’s unique situation.
He’d almost backed out of the invitation twice today—even that afternoon at the department meeting he’d been dead tired, no doubt from staying up too late the previous night writing up notes from his adventure at the construction site and analyzing the dust he’d gathered from the ruined creature, or construct, or whatever the hell it was.
Unfortunately, the analysis didn’t provide much useful information. The dust was exactly what it appeared to be—dust—and by the time he got it home it retained only the faintest fading hint of magical energy. He hadn’t seen the odd figure from the rearview mirror anymore after he left the site, though made sure the wards on his house were at full strength, just in case.
He was in his study leafing through his notes in hope of making a new connection when the doorbell rang. “Here we go,” he muttered, taking a few deep breaths. He’d devoted less mental preparation to some of the magical threats he’d faced.
Edwina Mortenson looked like she’d come straight from work, still dressed in her new-age finery. She carried a blue tote bag with an embroidered Celtic-knot pattern.
“Edwina,” he said, putting on his best charming smile. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“I’m happy to help, of course.” She looked around as she came in, clearly trying to take in as much of the place as she could without being too obvious about it. As it was, she might have been more obvious if she waved a sign, but possibly not.
“May I offer you anything?,” he asked. “A drink? Cup of tea? Or would you like to get right to it?”
“Thank you, no, I’m fine. I’d like to meet this cat of yours.”
“Right, then,” he said, relieved. Sitting around trying to make small talk with Edwina Mortenson might not be his exact definition of hell, but it was in the same area code. “Just up here.”
He took her upstairs, glad that he’d remembered to close all the other doors. “I warn you,” he said, opening the one to the guest room, “he’s quite skittish. I can’t get him to come out from under the armoire when I’m anywhere near.”
“Oh, we’ll see. I’m pretty good with cats.”
Stone closed the door behind them and flipped on the light. As he expected, Raider hadn’t made an appearance. He sat down on the chair next to the bed and pointed at the armoire. “He’s all yours. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
She didn’t reply, but instead lowered herself with care down to the floor until she sat a few feet away from the armoire, her tote bag next to her. “What’s his name?” she asked.
“He’s called Raider. They actually answer to their names?”
“Not usually,” she said wryly. “But one can hope. Is he eating?”
“When I’m not around.”
“And he hasn’t attacked you again?”
“I haven’t tried picking him up again.” Or, you know, reminding him of the worst night of his life.
“Well,” she said, “I haven’t met the cat yet who can resist catnip.” From her tote bag, she pulled a narrow rod with small object attached to it by a string, kneaded the object a few times in her hands, and then shoved it into the space under the armoire. After waiting a few seconds, she slowly pulled it back out.
A second later, Raider’s head poked out, his eyes wide and fixed on the object. As Mortenson pulled it farther away, he belly-crawled the rest of the way out and pounced on it, gathering it in his front paws and kicking it vigorously with his back legs. Mortenson let him play with it for a minute or so, then tentatively reached out to pet his head.
He went on savaging his “prey” as if she weren’t even there.
Stone stared, impressed in spite of himself. “Bloody hell, Edwina. You’re some sort of cat whisperer.”
“You just need to know how to relate to them,” she said without turning away from the cat. She continued gently petting him. “Isn’t that right, Raider?” she crooned. “Who’s a sweet boy?”
“You’ve got him high, haven’t you?”
She chuckled. “As I said, very few cats don’t like catnip. And when they’re stressed, it helps them calm down.” Gently extricating the object from Raider, she waggled it and dropped it into her ample lap. Raider took a languid swipe at it with one front paw, then climbed into her lap, reclaimed it, and settled in. “Come on over,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Don’t make any sudden movements. See if he’ll let you near him now.”
Stone got up and, moving slowly, crossed the room and crouched next to her. Raider didn’t even seem to notice him, let alone make any move to get up.
“See if he’ll let you pet him.”
Thoroughly quashing any thoughts about how unutterably weird and borderline inappropriate it was to be stroking a cat settled into the lap of his normally prickly and standoffish department head, Stone reached out a tentative hand and scratched Raider’s ears. The cat tensed just a bit, glanced up at him as if to say, “What?” and then returned to his slow-motion savaging of the object, now revealed on closer examination to be a catnip mouse.
Mortenson stroked Raider’s flank. “Honestly, Alastair, from the way you described it I was expecting much more of a challenge than this. He’s a sweetheart. You said you’re watching him for a friend?”
“Well…that’s the plan.” Stone stood and sat down on the edge of the bed. “My friend isn’t well, though, and he might end up having to give him up. I’m not sure I want to take him as a permanent houseguest. I don’t know anything about having a pet, and I’m away so often it wouldn’t be fair to him.” He regarded her hopefully. “You wouldn’t want to take him, would you, if my friend can’t keep him?”
“I would, but I’ve already got three, and that’s about as many as I can handle.” She continued stroking Raider, who seemed in no hurry to vacate his warm new spot, and pulled her tote bag to her. “I brought you a few things, though, that might help. You can keep the mouse—just wave it around and let him chase it before you go to bed. It will tire him out so he doesn’t keep you awake. And—” She pulled out a laser pointer, a couple more catnip
toys that weren’t on strings, and finally a small plastic jug. “This stuff works miracles on ‘accidents.’ You probably won’t be able to salvage the pillow, but if he marks the walls or the rug, this will neutralize it.”
Seriously, who was this woman and what had she done with Edwina Mortenson? He’d been at Stanford for close to seven years now; not once had he ever had a non-work-related conversation even half this long with her, and now she was chattering away as if the two of them were lifelong friends. “Thank you, Edwina. Honestly. I appreciate this.”
“Quite all right. I hope it ends up being helpful.” She shooed Raider gently off her lap and made as if to get up, but struggled to manage.
Stone offered her a hand up, and was surprised when she accepted.
“Thank you,” she said, her tone hovering between her usual briskness and gratitude as she smoothed her skirt and blouse. She dug in the bag again, and offered him a book. “This covers basic cat care. You might find it useful.”
He noted that Raider hadn’t returned to his spot beneath the armoire, but was now sitting in the middle of the floor watching the two of them. At least now he knew how to get the cat out of there.
Mortenson started toward the door, but stopped before she reached it. “May I ask you something?” she said without looking at him.
“Of course.” Stone tensed a little—now that the cat crisis had been handled, she sounded like she was reverting to the old Edwina he was used to.
“Well—” She actually sounded uncomfortable, and still didn’t meet his gaze. “I have to admit I’ve been following these murder cases you were consulting on. And I wonder…”
Stone frowned. What didn’t she want to say?
“Well…” she said again, her hands tight on the handles of her bag. “I wonder if perhaps there isn’t some supernatural involvement in the murders. I know, I know,” she added quickly, raising a hand as if expecting him to interrupt her. “It’s all academic to you, and you’ve never made any secret about that. But I like to think I’ve got a…more open mind about such possibilities.”
