“One day, we heard a rumor that ap Owen was coming to our dinky little theater. Naturally, we thought someone had gone delusional, but a week later, the rumor was that he had settled in at Mae Foster's boarding house.” She tasted her drink again, and continued, “We came in that Wednesday afternoon to rehearse a new song, and there he was, wearing jeans, mind you, and a plaid shirt. He looked like a local yokel, except for that ... presence. He was standing with Ray Bob, our conductor, talking and laughing. You could have knocked the rest of us down with a feather.”
A flurry of questions filled the air. “How did you get him? How could such a small town afford him? What did you do? What did he do?” She held up her hand.
“I'm getting there,” she said. “It seems he takes a couple of weeks once or twice a year, and chooses some little hole-in-the-wall town and goes there. For fun, I guess. I don't really know why. But he showed Ray Bob some tricks he knew, and he worked with us for two weeks. He even bought us new instruments with his own money, and he didn't get us cheap stuff, either.” She looked around, as if defying anyone to call her a liar. “When the weekend came for the show, I tell you we were some good! He directed a couple of shows, but he mostly just sat in the audience with everyone else and watched Ray Bob do his bit. He even paid for his ticket!” She shook her head in remembrance. “He's more than generous. He's an amazing man. And you know what else? Even with all his fame and money, he acted like a regular person. We had him to supper one night, and he was such good company! Oh, we all chatted till the wee hours, and laughed like loons. He looks so hoity-toity, but he's very down-to-earth and nice.”
“Now I want to meet him even more,” said the Flautist. “I hope he gets here soon.”
“I ‘ope nothing bad ‘as ‘appen,” said Josée. The conversation wandered off into other topics as they ate and drank their fill at Daffyd's expense.
Many in the music business preferred to be affiliated with a particular theater. They enjoyed the security of regular paychecks and the comfort of knowing each member of the orchestra. Others, like Daffyd, preferred the challenge of being a free agent. He took great pride and pleasure in his ability to bend almost any group of musicians to his will, to weave their individual efforts into a harmonious blend of glorious sound. He would coax, cajole, sometimes intimidate and threaten to achieve his goal. The players would listen to themselves being drawn to heights they had never dreamed they could reach, and marveled at his skill. For this reason, he was greatly in demand.
His appearance at the Place des Arts was quite the coup. But he had apparently vanished without a trace somewhere between his hotel and the theater. No one had seen him after the doorman had unsuccessfully tried to hail him a cab.
He had set out for the theater, so said the hotel doorman when questioned by a gofer sent to find the conductor. He, the doorman, had noticed a cab discharging a passenger down the block, and he had seen ap Owen running toward it. He assumed he'd made it, because moments later the cab had pulled away with another passenger, and the famous conductor was nowhere to be seen. What other logical conclusion could be drawn?
The theater manager was becoming frantic. Calls to ap Owen's agent had produced nothing, calls to his personal communicator, which he always had with him, met with the message that the communicator was out of range, and that had been an hour ago! From Montreal, ap Owen's communicator should have been in range from the Arctic to the equator, and from Saskatchewan to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. It was unthinkable he'd gotten out of range in a matter of minutes.
He sat down with his head in his hands. He supposed the police would have to be notified—an idea that had all the appeal of walking barefoot on a carpet of slugs. He didn't need this, didn't want it, and fervently wished the fires of damnation on ap Owen's head. Then he reached for the vidphone to contact the police.
* * * *
Seren Baker's children were becoming increasingly worried. The youngest was close to tears, convinced that her bratty behavior of the morning had driven her mother to run away from home. The oldest was too concerned with having the heavy responsibility of being head of the household to comfort her sister. The middle children, a pair of sixteen-year-old boy-girl twins, were taking turns trying to help the other two.
Right now, Matthew was doing his best to reassure Meggie that she could never be so bad that Mum would run away. He was having a hard time, because, just lately Meg's behavior had been such that he had wanted to run away, or at least sell Meg to a circus or something. Mum kept saying it was just puberty rearing its ugly head, and that, REALLY, Meggie would grow out of it. But Matthew had his doubts.
His twin, Theodora, who preferred to be called, simply, Theo, was sitting with their older sister. Karina, at nineteen, had recently finished her first year of university, and was now on summer holidays, working at a small law office, as a general assistant, gofer, and aide. She lived at home, paid a small amount of rent to her mother, and was in on all the financial ins and outs that related to running the house and supporting a family. She knew she could handle things for a little while. Seren took weeklong business trips several times a year, leaving Karina in charge. But all those times, Karina knew where Seren was, and how to get in touch with her, and when she'd be back. Now, no one seemed to know anything.
One of her big fears was that Children's Aid would get involved and take Meggie out of the house. The twins were deemed old enough to choose where they would live, but Meggie was only eleven. Karina hoped it wouldn't come to that, but the fear gnawed at her, adding its power to the fear about her mother. Something must have happened. Police had found Seren's car keys under the trunk of the car, as though she had tossed them, or dropped them as she was falling. Karina wondered if someone had hidden himself beside the car and had grabbed her as she came around the back. But all the witnesses said she had just vanished. Karina's mind refused to consider this as a possibility.
She put her head down on her folded arms, her thick hair hiding her from the world. She was aware of Theo's arm across her shoulders, her hand patting Karina's back in a manner so like their mother's that the older girl gave way to her fears and wept.
* * * *
In the pantry of the deserted house, Seren lifted her head as if listening to a distant sound. A frown creased her forehead. “I'm okay, honey,” she whispered. “I'm okay. I'll be home as soon as I find out how to get there.” Her throat tightened with unshed tears; her eyes burned. For a wild moment, she entertained the idea of tapping her sneaker heels together while repeatedly reciting, “There's no place like home.” She laughed quietly to herself.
Be nice if it would work, she thought, and then wondered if it might be worth a try. It was certainly no more offbeat and strange than what had already happened today. She went back to examining the contents of the pantry cupboards.
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* * *
CHAPTER 6
Protoleader Gerri Reznik plodded along the road. Counselor Rapsim ba Sharaval was close behind, almost trotting to keep up with her longer strides. He was grateful that she wasn't really powering along or he would have had to jog to keep up. He preferred not to have to do that.
He continued to scan with his multi. It stubbornly insisted they were not on any known star map and that they were in a non-existent time. Even Rapsim, as experienced a traveler as he was in multi-dimensional space, was having difficulty with the concept of no time.
The scenery was excruciatingly dull. The endless plain stretched off to their left, the tall grasses gently undulating in the breeze. A hillside of trees rose on the right. It seemed to go up for quite a distance and was much too steep to want to climb to see what might be on the other side. The multi gave no more information than that which was patently obvious. The only life signs it showed, besides their own, were the other people on the road and in the field. There were no birds in the forest, no small animals scampering in the undergrowth, no bugs trudging industriously up a tree, not even a
worm wriggling through the dark earth.
Reznik reached down suddenly and grabbed Rapsim's shoulder.
“Aim your doohickey over there,” she said, pointing across a space where the road curved in the distance. From where she was standing, all she could make out was the dazzling glitter of sunlight on water, somewhere on the far side of the road over there. Something about it seemed contrived, artificial, and she wished she had been carrying her helmet with her when they had been whooshed off on this magical mystery tour. A Recruit Mission helmet had a visor with multiple modes of vision, including infrared, ultraviolet and distance.
Rapsim aimed his device and squinted at the read out. “It's some kind of waterway,” he said. She glared and rolled her eyes, but held her tongue. “It seems to be man—or whatever—made ... seems to be some sort of concrete course, and the water is coming from an underground source at that end.” He waved in the general direction. I can't tell where it leads, though.”
“Well, let's go check it out. You want to cut through the field or stick to the road?”
He looked down at the grass that came up to his forehead. It had left him feeling more than a little disoriented and claustrophobic. “Let's stay on the road, shall we? We'll make better time here, anyhow.”
Reznik smiled inwardly and agreed. They resumed their trek.
* * * *
The doorman of the Sheraton Hotel was nervous. He had never been questioned by the Surêté before for anything and he knew they thought his story was a little strange. The officer on the other side of the table smiled pleasantly.
“Let's just review this, m'sieur. You saw m'sieur ap Owen running for the taxi, yes? You looked away as someone bumped into you just as he stumbled and when you looked back, the taxi was pulling away with a passenger you assumed was ap Owen.”
“Yes. That's it exactly.”
The policeman sighed. The doorman had no reason to lie. Neither did the taxi driver or the passengers—the one who had just gotten out and the one who had hopped in immediately after. Both of them remembered seeing the conductor; he was, after all, a big and imposing figure of a man. Neither of them could say where he had gone or what had become of him. The cabbie said he had seen ap Owen in his side mirror, that he had stumbled, fallen and vanished in a flash of light. All of the cabdriver's friends and relatives were being questioned as to the regularity of his use of recreational substances. So far, his reputation was spotless.
The only explanation seemed to be that the world-famous conductor had simply vanished off the face of the earth. The impossible had happened and in Captain Ruisseau's precinct! It just wasn't fair.
Ap Owen's agent and manager were frothing with rage at what they considered to be the ineptitude of the Montreal Police Department. Political pressure was being brought to bear and the Chief was in an uproar. It didn't help that the Quebec Provincial Police were being called in, as if to underscore Ruisseau's inability to handle the investigation. The QPP were operating on the assumption that international kidnappers had somehow nabbed him right off the street, despite the lack of any evidence supporting the theory. Ruisseau supposed it made more sense than the cabdriver's assertion, though.
The whole thing was a huge headache that the good Captain would much rather not have. He stood up from the table and told the doorman he was free to leave. He returned to his office, closing the door firmly behind him. He opened the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet and took out a bottle he hadn't opened in many months. He poured a generous amount in his coffee cup, returned the bottle to its hiding place, and sipped the whiskey thoughtfully. If he could solve this case....
* * * *
Llewellyn ap Owen, a robust man in his late eighties, reached for the telephone as it shrilled for the second time.
“Yes?” he said into the receiver. Unlike most of his neighbors, he had refused to upgrade to a vidphone, preferring the machines of a decade ago.
“May I speak with Mr. ap Owen?” said an unfamiliar voice.
“Speaking,” said Llewellyn.
“This is Captain Ruisseau of the Montreal Urban Police. Are you the father of Daffyd ap Owen, the conductor?” The voice had a carefully neutral tone Llewellyn did not care for.
“Yes,” he replied, wondering what it was all about. “Has something happened to Daffyd?”
“We don't know for certain,” replied the policeman. “Has he been in touch with you recently?”
“He called two nights ago to tell me he had arrived in Montreal. Please tell me what is going on.” Worry and anger struggled for first place in his heart.
“Mr. ap Owen, I regret to inform you that your son has disappeared. He left his hotel yesterday morning, but did not make it to rehearsal, nor has he returned to the hotel. No one has seen him since then.”
Llewellyn sat down heavily. For Daffyd to miss rehearsal was unthinkable. He was never even late, unless something catastrophic happened. He had been caught in an earthquake in San Francisco once, and had called the hall to tell them he would be delayed. Llewellyn began to be very concerned.
“If you hear from him, please contact me immediately.” The Captain gave Llewellyn his office and home numbers. He wanted ap Owen to be able to reach him at any time, night or day.
“Yes, certainly. Of course.” Llewellyn wrote down the digits in his precise hand. He hung up the phone and stared at it for a few minutes. Then he picked it up and dialed from memory.
Across the continent, a phone rang. “Hello?” said a woman's voice.
“Rhee? It's Dad,” said Llewellyn.
“Dad! Hi. What's up?” Rhiannon was surprised to hear from him on a Wednesday morning. They usually chatted on Saturday nights.
“Have you heard from Daffyd?” he asked.
“No, not since he left for Montreal. Is something wrong, Dad?” Worry sidled into her consciousness.
“I'm not sure. I just had a call from the Montreal police. Daffyd's gone missing.”
“Missing? How? When?” Her mouth went dry.
“They said he didn't turn up for rehearsal yesterday. Listen, Rhee. Do you think Morgyn has any contacts up there?” Llewellyn asked, grabbing at straws. Perhaps if Morgyn could reach a colleague, she might get information not readily available to the general public.
“I don't know, Dad,” said Rhiannon. “But I'll ask her. You know how much she loves her Uncle Daffyd. If there's anything she can find out, or anything, I'll let you know right away. I'll call her right now.”
“Thank you, Rhee. I'll let you go, then.” He hung up.
Rhiannon looked up the number of the police station where her daughter was a patrol officer, and punched it in. The desk sergeant answered.
“John? Rhiannon ap Owen here. Is Morgyn around?” she asked.
“She just went out on the street, Rhee. Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked.
“Get her to call me as soon as she can, would you? My brother has gone missing in Montreal.” She hadn't meant to blurt it out to anyone before talking to Morgyn; it had simply fallen out of her mouth.
“Do you want me to tell her he's missing, or just to call?” asked the Sergeant.
“I don't know, John. I'm so upset, I can't think straight. My father just called from Kansas. The Montreal police just told him. It's just not like Daffyd to run off somewhere.” She paced back and forth in her kitchen.
“I'll pass on your message, Rhee. I think I'll break it to her, if that's all right. And I'll try to reach some of the folks I know up that way. Maybe I can find something out for you.”
“Thanks, John,” Rhiannon made a few more polite comments and broke the connection. She sat at the kitchen table, her coffee growing cold in front of her and thought about her brother.
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* * *
CHAPTER 7
Seren had exhausted the possibilities of the lower cupboards and was now inspecting the upper ones. They proved to be well stocked with boxes, packages, and cans. Some of the l
abels had clear pictures of the contents but others had what appeared to be fancy logos and more of the indecipherable print.
She didn't want to load the knapsack with cans but they were the easiest to understand and there was a good variety. She didn't fancy opening the other packages and boxes to find out what they contained. She was a little leery of meat products, though. It was too hard to tell dog food from corned beef.
She stretched to relieve her cramping muscles and yawned prodigiously. It must be getting late, she thought. She had been on her way home to make supper and she had been in this place for hours, what with all the walking, the impromptu picnic and then more walking. She must have been here in the pantry for a good hour.
Just as she decided she should go track Daffyd down, he appeared in the doorway. She jumped.
“Holy shit!” she exclaimed and laughed shakily. “You scared me half to death!”
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to.” His smile barely moved his lips, but crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I thought you would have heard me coming. Are you all right?”
“Yes. I'm fine. I think the danger of heart attack is past. But don't do that. Whistle or something, let me know you're around. Man!” She smiled to take any possible sting out of her words. “Did you find anything useful?”
“Perhaps not so much useful as interesting. And puzzling. Would you mind coming upstairs with me? I'd like your opinion on a few things.”
“Sure. I need a break, anyway. And maybe take a nap. I was hoping for some camping gear somewhere. I don't fancy lying out in the night in just this.” She gestured at her clothes.
He looked at her sharply. “Say that again!”
“Say what? I don't want to sleep outside in a strange world without a tent. How's that?”
“No ... you said, ‘lying out in the night'. What time do you suppose it is by now?”
“I haven't a clue. It looked to be about noon here when I arrived. The sun was pretty high. I'd guess we've been here about four or five hours. But don't quote me on that.” She leaned against the counter behind her. “Why?”
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