The Edge of Reason

by Melinda Snodgrass

  “You’ll have to go get her,” Kenntnis said, sharper than he’d intended. The creature had annoyed him.

  Cross’s head swung up and he presented Kenntnis with a view of half-chewed food as his mouth hung open. “From a cop? No way. This one’s on you.”

  “I don’t work that way. I don’t get involved anymore.”

  “Well, you better fucking get involved. We’ve got the Clash of Civilizations coming, Armageddon, the New Dark Age.” Cross’s voice provided the capitals. “You keep dithering and I’m going to fucking end up on the other side.”

  Kenntnis knew it wasn’t a threat, just a statement of fact. If the concepts of tolerance, love and forgiveness continued to erode between religions and races the Old One’s darker nature would reassert itself.

  “Okay, I’ll call the mayor.”

  “By the way, the cop’s one of the empty ones,” Cross said as he poured out a fresh cup of coffee.

  Kenntnis turned slowly to stare at him. “And you didn’t think this was relevant and significant?”

  “Not particularly,” Cross said. He blew hard across the coffee. Steam bent and danced under the assault. “What are you gonna do? Arm him with the sword? It’s not 800 A.D. anymore.” The creature paused, considering. “Although he might be willing to use it on me.” There was a hopeful note in the final words.

  “As I keep telling you, the only part of you that would die is the part that’s useful to me. So, no.”

  Swinging behind his desk, Kenntnis pulled the computer out of sleep mode. He would investigate the background of this paladin before he actually contacted the man. But the arrival of an empty one at just this juncture and the symbolism of the policeman’s shield wasn’t lost on Kenntnis, though it represented a level of coincidence which made him decidedly uncomfortable. Fate was not normally a player in Kenntnis’s plans. In fact she was usually a downright bitch.

  They hadn’t talked during the twenty-minute drive from downtown to Apartment Row out north on Montgomery. Her face throbbed in time to the beating of her heart and exhaustion dragged at every limb. Rhiana rested her head against the back of the seat and let the music pouring from the radio lull her. It was something soft and classical. She didn’t know anything about that kind of music.

  She awoke, unsettled, from a sleep she hadn’t intended to take. It had been the jouncing of the car passing over a speed bump that woke her. As they pulled into the parking lot of an apartment complex, Rhiana noted it was one of the nicer units nestled close to the foothills, and built in a pseudo-Spanish style with tiled roofs and bright stucco on the walls.

  She waited by the car as the policeman opened the trunk and removed a shotgun. She noted the bulletproof vest with its ceramic inserts lying on the floor of the trunk. That won’t help him against what’s coming, she thought.

  Nausea took her as the fear returned. The slamming of the trunk brought her back. Oort was indicating the way with a gesture of his long, slender hand, allowing her to go first. Was it manners or did he want to keep that shotgun at her back? She started up the path from the parking lot.

  He had a ground floor unit. He unlocked the door and stepped aside for her to enter. The cheap carpet was the usual apartment beige, but everything else was unexpected. The room was dominated by a grand piano set near the sliding glass doors leading onto the minuscule patio. There was a metal and white leather sofa of a very modern design arranged in front of a small television, an armchair, a glass coffee table with a few books scattered on the top. There was no dining table. It appeared he ate at the tiny counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.

  A Bose stereo system sat against one wall. On the other wall was a tall bookcase. It was filled with books and sheet music, CDs, a signed baseball, and a NY Yankees World Series mug. On one shelf in a modern silver Nambe frame was a family photo. A stern-looking man with gray hair and amazing dark blue eyes looked out. Next to him stood two young women—one with light brown hair, the other with dark blond—both attractive without being beautiful. In front of the older man stood a slender and delicately beautiful older woman with white blond hair and gray eyes. The man had his hand on her shoulder, but it looked more controlling than affectionate. Rhiana didn’t have to ask if this was Oort’s mother. Her features were etched in his face. The cop was also in the photo, but he wasn’t looking at the camera. His gaze was on his father’s face with an inscrutable expression.

  There were a few paintings on the wall. All abstract. All icy cool in shades of white, gray and pale blues. Everything was excruciatingly neat. The only evidence of use was an open book of music on the piano’s stand.

  She couldn’t help but compare it with her family’s home, cluttered with piles of old newspapers and People magazines, reeking of dog pee which had permeated the cheap carpet, and filled with the competing noise of four televisions in four rooms all tuned to different channels. It made her feel awkward and low class. She felt the embarrassment transform to resentment against the cop.

  Oort propped the shotgun against the wall near the front door. He crossed the room. He had an economical way of moving and an upright posture. Rhiana realized it was not the erect stance of military service but more reminiscent of dancers or gymnasts. He twitched shut the curtains over the sliding glass door.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  The reminder had saliva bursting across her tongue and her stomach clenching. She nodded. The interior of the refrigerator was as neat as the rest of the apartment, and equally as spare. Milk, eggs, a carton of plain yogurt and various kinds of fresh fruit in the crisper drawers.

  “I drink a yogurt shake in the mornings,” Richard said. “I also have oatmeal, if that sounds more appealing.”

  “Oatmeal,” Rhiana said. She expected the usual microwaveable packet, but instead he took down a package of steel-cut Scottish oats from a cabinet. While the oatmeal cooked he dumped yogurt, honey, fruit, wheat germ and milk into a blender and whipped the mixture to a froth.

  The oatmeal was set before her on the counter along with the milk, honey and a package of extremely tiny raisins. Rhiana surreptitiously turned the package to read the label. Zante Currants. So that’s what currants looked like. She had read about them, but they hadn’t been a staple in the Davinovitch household.

  An experimental taste of the oats revealed a far richer, nuttier flavor than conventional oatmeal. The local New Mexico mesquite honey had an almost bitter aftertaste. The policeman stood in the kitchen, his shoulders propped against the front of the refrigerator, and sipped his drink. There was a frown between his pale brows. Finally he reached into his pants pocket and deposited the penny on the counter.

  It sat spinning and glowing. Rhiana’s throat was suddenly too tight to swallow. She set down her spoon and met the icy blue eyes of her host.

  “Now I need to have a few questions answered,” he said in his soft tenor. His expression was worried and vulnerable.

  “O …” Her voice broke. Rhiana coughed and tried again. “Okay.”

  “What did you do to it?” He indicated the penny.

  “Activated it so it could carry a spell for me.” She saw no point in holding back. He was her only hope for staying alive.

  “A spell?”

  Furrows formed in the oatmeal and filled with milk as she dragged her spoon through her cereal. “When you do magic you need a focusing device. Some people use wands. Others use crystals. I use pennies. It’s whatever works for you.”

  “And those … monsters, they’re magical too?” Richard asked.

  “Created by magic. They’re not magical creatures. They were just sticks and mud animated by magic.” She worried this was too much information, but his expression was still attentive.

  “And they were sent to kill you?”

  “Yes,” Rhiana said.

  “A gun would have been easier,” Richard said.

  “But guns need someone to shoot them, and people and guns can be traced. You can’t trace mud and sti
cks.”

  “So who created and sent these things?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe the man who’s been funding us. Maybe the group, but I didn’t think they had the power for something like this.”

  “Does this man who’s funding you have a name?”

  “I don’t know it. Josh never let any of the rest of us deal with him.”

  “And what was the funding for?”

  This was getting dangerously close to the heart of the matter. “Magical stuff … work.”

  “And why do they want to kill you?”

  And now they were to it. The million-dollar question. If she answered, it would slam her ass in jail and remove her from the protection of this man. In jail she would die and she didn’t want to die.

  Rhiana slid off the barstool and walked into the living room, playing for time and seeking inspiration. “It’s complicated,” she said slowly as her gaze flew across the books on the shelves, the books on the coffee table. One was open. Gilt-edged pages glinted and she realized from the minute type and the almost translucent pages that it was a Bible. Suddenly the other titles on the shelves snapped into focus. Works by Aquinas and Augustine set alongside an array of forensic books and psychology texts.

  She whirled to face the policeman. “It’s because I wanted to leave the coven.” It wasn’t a lie. She had, but not for the reasons this man would assume.

  “All right,” he said. Richard laid a hand on the edge of the oatmeal bowl. “Are you finished?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  He picked up the bowl and his glass and moved to the sink. They were quickly rinsed and deposited in the dishwasher. Rhiana drifted back toward the kitchen.

  “You’re not denying it. Pretending it didn’t happen. Telling me you don’t believe in magic,” she said as Richard dried his hands.

  He glanced at the glowing, spinning penny. He then opened the freezer and pulled out a couple of cold packs. He tossed one to Rhiana. She instinctively caught it. He laid his against his jaw and sucked in a quick gasp.

  “The evidence is pretty incontrovertible,” he said.

  Rhiana laid the cold pack against the side of her head where one of the monster’s fists had connected. Her gasp echoed his. They stood staring at each other across the breakfast bar.

  “So what do we do now?” Rhiana asked.

  “Sleep,” came the reply.

  The memory of Josh’s pawing hands and how he always managed to press his crotch against her when they were working filled her mouth with a sour taste. Granted this man’s slim body was a vast improvement over Josh’s pendulous belly, but …

  “You take the bed,” he said. She looked into his beautiful face and realized he had sensed her dismay. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  Tears pricked hot and moist against her eyelids and hung on her lashes. Rhiana nodded and headed toward the bedroom door.

  “And the door locks,” he added.

  She looked back and wondered what fate had placed her in such gentle care. She found a small and nervous smile curving her lips. “I don’t think I’m going to need that.”

  Her dreams were filled with burning people running down cavernous streets. Her horror was tempered by the tingle of power arcing along her nerve endings. Twisting shadows pushed through mirrors. Her legs cramped, sending pain shooting through her muscles, as she tried to run from their advance. Each time it happened she awoke with a gasp, and had to reorient herself in the strange room. At some point she was so exhausted that neither dreams nor pain could penetrate.

  It was the furtive snap of the bathroom door closing which returned Rhiana to consciousness. Pushing back the tangle of her hair, Rhiana rolled over and squinted at the luminous numbers on the alarm clock. Ten a.m. There was the sound of water trickling from a tap. Rhiana rolled out of bed and wrapped the sheet around her body before crossing to the bathroom door.

  “Just a minute,” the policeman called in answer to her light knock.

  “Don’t you sleep in after a night shift?” Rhiana asked.

  “Not on Sunday,” came the muffled reply. She heard the sharp rattle of the shower against a plastic curtain. “Go back to bed. I’m going to church.”

  “Not without me,” she said to the door and gathered her clothes.

  The church was drab. Plain glass windows offered a view of the brilliant blue New Mexico sky. The promise of snow had not materialized. Wooden pews. Wooden altar. Plain wooden cross. There was the smell of lemon-scented wood polish rather than incense. A small portable organ in the back corner of the church wheezed out a seemingly random series of scales as people filed in the doors. The men wore coats and ties and almost every woman wore a dress. There were very few Hispanic faces and no blacks.

  “Is your family religious?” Richard whispered as they walked to a pew near the middle. Some of the woman were staring at her hiking boots and leather jacket.

  “Holiday Catholics,” she replied.

  The wood was cold through the fabric of her jeans. Slumping down, she took the strain from her sore back onto her tailbone. The cop sat straight, holding his Bible between long, slender fingers. The bruise on his jaw was livid against his white, white skin.

  People were still staring at them, and Rhiana lightly touched her own bruised face. She dropped her head allowing her hair to fall forward and veil her injuries. People probably think we either had really rough sex last night or a really big fight, Rhiana thought. She wanted to scream out what really happened and shake up their very white, very ordered lives.

  The service began with an opening hymn. Next to her a soaring tenor rose above the congregation. Rhiana turned and stared at the cop. Her aunt Judy liked to think of herself as sophisticated, and always had classical music playing whenever her brother came over. Rhiana had only heard voices like this on the records her aunt played.

  The only familiar thing was the Lord’s Prayer. Rhiana could mumble along with the rest of them on that one. As the minutes ticked slowly past, Rhiana alternated between flipping through the hymnal and glancing at her companion’s profile. He never felt her gaze, never looked at her. During the prayers his eyes were tightly closed, but his expression wasn’t one of joy.

  Based on the sermon there was plenty of reason to be grim. The minister seemed generally pissed about the state of the world and each and every person in it. Once Rhiana had the drift of his remarks she allowed her mind to wander. She wondered about the others. Did they know Josh had sent things to kill her? Did Josh know she hadn’t died? Based on the homeless guy’s remark that seemed likely. She had felt confident that they wouldn’t use ordinary weapons against her, but that might have changed since her escape. The cop might be able to hide her from the darkness, but he couldn’t stop a bullet or a hit-and-run driver, or a knife, or a fire. Her lungs felt clogged. She choked and struggled for breath.

  Richard’s fingers closed over her wrist. “Are you all right? Do you need to leave and get some air?” he whispered.

  The realization that he had been aware of her, and seemed worried and concerned about her, created a lump in her throat. Tears blossomed wet and warm against her lower lids. She brushed them away with the backs of her hands and nodded. Richard took her under the arm, and helped her out of the pew and out the doors.

  “I’m sorry,” she said once they stood in the parking lot.

  “It’s okay, the service was almost over.”

  “What are we going to do now?”

  “Go home. I need a little more sleep.”

  But that plan didn’t work out. When they got back to the apartment there was a message on the answering machine from the mayor’s Chief of Staff, requesting that Officer Oort go to a meeting with a Mr. Kenntnis of Lumina Enterprises at three that afternoon.

  Chapter THREE

  The Internet was a wonderful tool. While Officer Oort might have an unpublished number and a fake name attached to his address, all the real information was easily captured on the Web. The chair creaked und
er his bulk as Kenntnis leaned back and stared at the thirty-two-inch monitor.

  Richard Noel Oort, twenty-seven, born on Christmas Day (Kenntnis assumed that was the source of the middle name) in Newport, Rhode Island. His father was a federal court judge. Two older sisters. Amelia, thirty-four, a surgeon. Pamela, thirty-one, a lawyer. Mother a homemaker. The youngest Oort had obtained his undergraduate degree at Cornell majoring in fine arts—music. He had been on the gymnastic team, joined the fencing club, the ski club. In his youth he and his father periodically entered yacht races and finished modestly well.

  He did his graduate work at the Rome Conservatory, focusing on piano and voice. He’d returned home and joined a Wall Street brokerage firm and lasted three months. There was no record of him for six months until he turned up in the police academy in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He was unmarried, and he carried a staggering amount of credit card debt, much of it incurred buying clothes and art.

  Kenntnis was still working on the missing six months, but either way it was a strange background for a beat cop in an undistinguished city in the poorest state in the Union.

  It was annoying that it was Sunday, but Kenntnis had the mayor’s home telephone number. A large contribution and the taxes generated by his building and company meant that Kenntnis’s calls were answered and his requests met. His current request was that a young officer by the name of Richard Oort be assigned to help Kenntnis form a security force for a subsidiary company he was planning to relocate to New Mexico that would employ one thousand people. An appointment was set for 3:00 p.m. that day. Kenntnis checked his watch. Only a few minutes from now.

  The Internet search meant he had tipped his hand, but the timing was so fast that he doubted his opponents could have arranged anything. Levering himself up on the palms of his hands, Kenntnis looked out through the window. The telephone line below his office sagged under the weight of the birds waiting to intercept his every call. Technology was his ally and he had long ago replaced his land lines with cell phones. It was now time to go to wireless Internet service as well. He couldn’t understand why the Old Ones continued to rely almost totally on magic rather than wiretaps, shotgun mikes and all the other panoply of modern snooping technologies. Kenntnis assumed it was something psychological and hoped it would continue. Kenntnis then gave a rueful smile: of course he had an Old One standing guard, watching for any magical attack.