“Oh,” I said, “okay … that’s … great, Gus, really.” Let me give you the 411 on tyromancy. It’s divination through the use of cheese. Yeah, sexy, right? There are many different styles of doing it. In Gus’s case, he viewed the formation of holes, of curds, of mold, as the cheese coagulated. Then finally he … inserted various parts of his body into the fermenting dairy product and listened to the sounds that produced. So “an audible response” … eww. Then I think, who am I to judge? What a man and his consenting cheese do in the privacy of their own home isn’t any of my damn business. Did I mention all Weathermen are kinda weird?
“It said, very clearly,” Gus said, as “Que Sera, Sera” played behind him, “‘Leucadia.’”
“‘Leucadia’?” I said. “Gus, what the fuck does that even mean?”
“Leucadia?” the back of the cab driver’s head said. “It’s down south, on the coast; it’s a less-developed section of Encinitas. A little over two hours from here. Nice place, Encinitas. Me and my buddies used to hit the beach down there in college to surf. It was mostly farms and some horse ranches back then.”
“No shit?” I asked.
“No shit,” the driver said without missing a beat. I could hear Gus’s grin over the line.
“I do good?” Gus asked.
“Gus, you did great,” I said. “I owe you one.”
“Wow, no kidding? Laytham Ballard owes me one.”
I chuckled.
“Got to run. Tell the boys next time I’m in town we will wreck it. Drinks on me.”
“Will do. Go get ’em, Laytham, but be careful. I … I saw some death coming. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Take care, Gus.” I hung up the phone. I slid another hundred to the driver.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Santos,” he said, “Jon Santos.” He took the bill without looking back.
“Encinitas, Santos?”
“It’s like five in the morning,” Santos said. “I’m off shift in an hour. My wife, Rose, she’s gonna kill me … but sure, why the hell not. This has been the most lucrative night of my career, so far, and you are definitely the best passenger story I’ve ever had. All that shit about monsters and supernatural sex clubs, Charles Manson … you really some kind of occult … whatever?”
I leaned back in the seat and pulled up a browser on the smartphone. “An occult whatever,” I said, “yeah, that I am.”
I caught an hour’s sleep on the ride down I-5 South. Before I crashed, I did a quick web search for doctors, primarily ob-gyn, in Encinitas. I found one that fit all the letters and numbers I needed to spin and complete the puzzle, Pat. Her name was Dr. Patrica Nahn, and I managed to come up with her office and home address with some digging. By seven-thirty, Santos and I were in the parking lot of her practice when she drove up in a forest-green Jag.
I recognized her from her Facebook picture, blond hair to her shoulders, thick, black glasses. She dressed like a soccer mom. Dr. Nahn headed toward the locked doors of her lobby, looking a little oddly at Santo’s L.A. cab. I stepped out into the morning light and felt the nausea of an all-nighter catch up to me. I looked like a drowned rat that had managed to find a dry hole for a spell. I was not at my most charming. “Dr. Nahn?” She had her keys out and turned to me, slipping the door key between her index and middle finger, ready to use as a weapon if need be against my sketchy presence fucking up her nice morning commute of Starbucks and NPR.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Crystal Myth,” I said. “Karen, Caern.” The recognition was undeniable. She knew. The doc turned and crossed to the door, her sensible heels clicking on the pavement.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She was fumbling with her keys, which rattled hard in her shaking hand. “Now please leave. This is private property and for patients only.” The door clicked open. “If you don’t go, I’m calling the police.”
“Please do,” I said, walking toward her. “We can swap stories about how you’re doing abortion work for porn stars. I’m sure your other clientele will get a kick out of that.” The doc spun, angry, as she looked around to see if anyone had heard me.
“I’ve done no such thing!” she said, and I believed her. “Caern was a patient of mine. It’s none of your damned business! Hasn’t that girl been through enough?”
“Yeah, I think she has,” I said, “and there is more trouble headed her way if you don’t help me.”
“Why should I trust you?” she said, looking me up and down.
“You’re not catching me at my best,” I said. “Actually, that’s not true. I’m pretty much always a hot mess. I was hired by friends of hers to make sure she’s alive and okay.”
“Like a private detective?” she asked.
“Yeah, something like that,” I said. “She’s alive, happy, and wants to stay anonymous, I’ll honor that.”
“She is,” Nahn said.
“I need to see her to be sure,” I said. “There are some evil bastards back in L.A. who wanted to use her, and they were going to kill her. They’re still out there.”
“I know,” the doctor said. “She came to me a disaster, a junkie, three and a half months pregnant. At the verge of a nervous breakdown, the things they did to her.” A car pulled in next to her Jag, the office manager I suspected. It was coming up on eight. “Tell me, how do I know you’re not one of these evil bastards from L.A.?”
“I am an evil bastard,” I said. “I guarantee you I’m the worst you’ll ever meet, but I’m not their evil bastard.”
* * *
Eight-fifteen and Santos’s cab pulled to the curb across the street from a pale-blue, shingled rancher on Cathy Lane. A few of the yards in this quiet little suburb were dotted with palm trees. There were swing sets and aboveground pools you’d buy at Walmart. Grills and boats under blue plastic tarps. It looked like a really nice place to live, to grow up, to grow old, as far away from L.A.’s porn scene or the Life as you could possibly find. I felt like an invader here, a virus. I didn’t belong.
“You cool?” Santos asked, sipping his third coffee. I flicked the cigarette out the window and crushed it with my boot as I stepped to the curb.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just been a long time getting here.”
“I can take you back to L.A.,” he said. “You can leave her be.”
“I have to,” I said. “I have to see if she actually got herself the fuck out of Hell and made it to Candy Land. I need to know.” Santos nodded.
“I’ll be waiting,” he said.
I headed up the walk, avoiding some scattered toys and a garden hose that hadn’t been rolled back up, and stood at the door. For a second the nightmare creaking of Crash Cart’s wheels filled my imagination, and I thought of walking into another murder scene, blood and flesh sprayed everywhere. I pushed the images, the stench of slaughter, out of my mind. I could go away. I could tell Ankou anything I wanted, and Vigil would back me up, I was sure of that, now. I didn’t have to do this.
I knocked on the door for the most selfish of reasons, not to free Torri Lyn from servitude, not to see if this girl was okay, not a hostage, or someone’s domestic slave. I knocked because I wanted to believe with all my heart that she had made it out the other side, and I had to see that, had to know it was possible.
The door opened. I heard children’s music; I think it was from the Nickelodeon TV channel. The house smelled of breakfast and baby powder. Caern Ankou, in her early twenties and still beautiful, opened the door. She was in a white cami and jeans, barefoot. A baby bump peeked out under the cami. She had scars on her arms, but they had mostly faded to pale, slightly raised shadows. The only jewelry she wore was a bracelet of unevenly shaped purple quartz and silver filigree. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She had a beautiful tattoo of a butterfly on her upper right bicep, in hues of purple and gold, and her eyes in the morning sunlight reminded me of stained glass. She looked at me wide-eyed and happy for a second.
“Hi,” she said, “can I help you?” I paused, just feeling the radiance of her, the life in her. It was like basking in sunlight. Then the clouds smothered the sun. I saw the look of old fear and distrust slide across her face. Her fingers moved to the edge of the door, ready to slam it.
“Hello, Caern,” I said.
TWENTY-TWO
Caern Ankou gestured for me to enter without another word. She looked sick and frightened. “This way, please. I don’t want us to disturb my son.” She led me through the airy, bright house, through a den where a little boy with mocha skin, a mop of unruly black curls, and a slight point to the tips of his ears sat in front of a flat-screen TV and watched cartoons, something called The Aquanauts. He looked up at me and smiled. I felt his soul pouring out of that simple smile.
“Hi,” he said. He looked to be about two, maybe a little younger.
“Hey,” I said.
“In here,” Caern said to me, an edge in her voice. “Garland, you watch your shows. Mommy and our guest have some things to talk about, okay?”
“Okay,” Garland said, already over the novelty of me and back to the adventures of singing aquatic animals. Caern led me to the rear of the house to an open and sun-filled kitchen with an island for dining. We could still see the boy; there were no doors between the two rooms. Caern sat, struggling a bit to get up on a high stool while cradling her belly. I helped her as much as she’d allow and then sat myself in the chair on the other side of the island, which was littered with junk mail, breakfast dishes, brightly colored plastic, children’s bowls decorated with Disney characters, and sippy cups. She had coffee but offered me none.
“Who sent you?” she asked, “Roland Blue, Brett, my father?”
“I’m here on my own,” I said. “I was hired by your dad to find you and bring you home.”
Caern snorted and shook her head.
“It figures,” she said. “I’ve felt him for years, probing, seeking. This,” she said, holding up the purple crystal bracelet on her wrist, “was my mother’s. It’s powerful, from the first land, and it hides me from the far sight. I stole it from her jewelry box after she died, when I left.”
“I know you have no reason to believe me, but I’m here to make sure you’re okay, not make you go home.”
She sighed. “I’m inclined to believe you’re not one of my father’s men. You knocked, and didn’t try to kick the door down, or grab me and Garland and throw a bag over our heads in some parking lot. How long have you been looking for us?”
“A few months,” I said.
“You must be good. He’s been hunting the globe for me for … nine, ten years. Well, his proxies have. He’s too busy to do it himself.”
“I had a lot of help from my friends,” I said. “Is that why you left? You didn’t think he had time for you after your mother passed?”
“Look, Mr.…?”
“Ballard, just Ballard.”
“Look, Ballard, no matter how much you’ve dug to get here, you don’t know me, you don’t know my life, and you surely have no idea about Theodore Ankou.”
“You’re right, I don’t know your life. I took this job for two reasons, one was a reward your dad promised me, and two was because I cut out from home at thirteen too. I had reasons, one of them was a mother so deep up a bottle, she could have been a model ship. I fed myself, looked after myself and her too. I understand not feeling loved.”
“You ever patch things up with your mom?” she asked. “Ever go home again?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t. She’s dead now.” I’d told the lie about her death so often now that even I believed it most of the time. I wondered for a moment if maybe she really was dead by now, then I pushed the thought away and focused on the now.
“Well, it wasn’t for lack of attention, exactly,” she said. She paused and I saw her pushing herself out of the dark vault of memory too. “You want something to drink? Tea? Coffee?”
“Coffee would be great,” I said. As she fixed me a cup, opening and closing cabinets as she did, I turned to watch her son, Garland, in the other room. He was transfixed by the TV, most of his chubby little hand covered in drool and popped in a ball between his lips. “He’s a beautiful kid. Where’s Dad?”
“At work,” she said, handing me a cup. “Thank you. He’s the most beautiful part of this world, or any other, that I’ve ever seen.” She was concealing something under the table, a weapon, I figured, maybe a kitchen knife. I didn’t blame her. “He left not too long before you showed up. I figured you had waited until he was gone.”
“You give me too much credit,” I said, breathing in the hot, black coffee like it was the secret of life, which, of course, it was. “I just showed up. My cab is still waiting out there, full of sinister-looking Fae gunsels.” She smiled at that and it was like the whole universe got a touch warmer, brighter. I sipped my coffee.
“Gunsel? You out of a Humphrey Bogart movie or something?” she asked.
“Close enough,” I said. “I’m impressed someone your age even knows who Humphrey Bogart is.”
“My mom loved old movies,” she said. “When Father was away on work, I’d hole up in her bed with her and we’d watch all the old movies. I loved The Maltese Falcon and The Big Sleep. Casablanca was my favorite Bogie movie.”
“Mine too,” I said. “I got to your front door mostly through being persistent and some dumb luck, both of which make up about ninety percent of detective work. What happened, why did you take off from home, how’d you got away from Glide? I know some of it, but there are gaps.”
“Do you really care?” she asked. “I mean, it’s mission accomplished now, right? Grab me, grab Garland, and take us back for that big paycheck. Why would you give a damn?”
“No paycheck,” I said. “Someone I love … she’s trapped in slavery to the Court of the Uncountable Stairs. I owe her to try to get her out of that. He promised to free her if I found you. I told him if I did find you, I wouldn’t make you go anywhere you didn’t want to go. He has no clue about your life here, about your family, Garland,” I nodded toward her belly, “or baby number two.”
A look of relief washed over Caern’s face. “He doesn’t know?” She slumped a little, then looked at me, searching my face, my eyes. “You’re sure? Please, you can’t tell him about the children, Ballard!” She was trying to stay calm, I could see that, but a desperate, panicked energy was creeping into her voice. Whatever she had hidden under the table she was clutching it like a lifeline. I saw Garland turn his head, as he sensed the same thing I did from his mother.
“Why did you run away, Caern?” I asked, keeping my voice low, putting down the coffee, leaning toward her.
“When Mom was alive everything seemed normal, sane, just … life, y’know,” she began, hesitantly. “Father was always busy with his work, his political and business battles. It made him happy. He was a good husband to Mom, he was … kind to me, generous, but always standoffish, but I didn’t find out why until later.” She closed her eyes and cradled her coffee mug, like it was giving her warmth, sanctuary, from a bitter cold. She glanced to her boy who was back to watching cartoons. Garland looked at his mom and she smiled at him. He went back to talking platypuses.
“Then Mom was gone,” she said, having recovered enough strength from her ghosts and her child to continue, “and everything changed. It was bad. He shipped me back off to those expensive schools I’d spent half my life at. Holidays were … I was alone. Since Garland was born, Joey and I have celebrated every goddamned holiday with him. We go overboard, we decorate the whole house, we make up all these stupid rituals, Joey makes up songs to sing to him.” The summer returned to her and I could feel it. It was part of her Fae nature, the world mirrored her moods, when she laughed there was birdsong, when she wept, the rain was cold. “I swore back then, sitting alone at a fucking million-dollar dining table on Christmas Eve—a feast laid out before me, for me to eat by myself, presents to open with no one—that this would never happe
n to my kid.”
I was silent. I tried to recall a holiday that hadn’t involved a hotel room and a bottle. I couldn’t. Caern sighed and looked to Garland again. Then she went on. “He came to some big event at my school, on Spetses, a few months after I turned thirteen. It was expected all the parents would jet in for it, so, of course he came. I think it was a concert or something. Afterward, we went out to dinner and he was different toward me, he paid attention to what I said, he … actually listened, and we had a conversation instead of him just waiting for me to shut up so he could talk. He was engaged; for the first time in my life, he acted like I was more than just an obligation, like a power bill or changing out the litter box.” She swallowed hard as the memory played out and her eyes got wet. She choked back a sob with a feeble laugh and sniffed. “I should have fucking known, right?
“That night, when we were alone and away from everyone, he told me how … beautiful … I was … what a beautiful woman I had become, so like … Mom.” She was fighting hard to stay in the present, and I wished I could say or do anything to help her in this, but I knew I couldn’t. This was hers alone. “He’d never talked to me that way, never. Then he tried to … touch me. I managed to slip away, get away before, y’know, before he…” I thought she was going to fall apart. She didn’t. She rubbed her face, rubbed her eyes, exhaled, and sat up straight. “He told me I had a … family obligation to him, to our name … since Mom hadn’t given him an heir fit to take his place. You see, I wasn’t good enough to run the empire. I didn’t have the requisite equipment, it seems. He told me he had to make sure the Ankou line remained pure, not polluted, tainted, with human blood.” She looked at her boy again and the anger made her trembling voice strong. “It was our … duty to keep the blood pure. What a crock of shit. He left the next day without saying another word to me. I went home a few months later when I knew he was away and I took a few things that mattered to me, and I never came back. I never will.”
The Night Dahlia Page 29
