Dead To Me

by Anton Strout

  Focusing my will on the book, I felt the electric spark of divination kick in.

  My mind flashed through a series of disconnected images that I had trouble focusing on—book binderies, type-setting machines, paper mills—all images to do with making the book itself but nothing else. As those images threw themselves at me, I let them fall away. Finally one forced itself forward and I had no other choice except to embrace it.

  The vision put me in a mom-and-pop bookstore. Several fixtures of well-thumbed paperbacks sat askew in a metal spinner rack along one of the aisles. Suddenly a figure carrying a tall stack of books blocked my view. I pulled my focus to the details of the figure and he came into resolution. The face was that of a young man, awkward looking with a bad spot of acne across his forehead. He was absolutely unfamiliar to me.

  What else was noticeable? There had to be something useful.

  I soaked in everything around the teen. The details. The clerk’s clothes, for instance. Parachute pants, skinny leather tie, and a FRANKIE SAYS RELAX button just above his nametag. The Weller book sat at the top of his pile and he slipped it off to shelve it. I double-checked his face, noticing the telltale mullet flaring out from behind his head, and I had all the information I needed to know I had hit a dead end.

  I shook myself free from the vision. Connor had given up his book and was watching me instead.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing linking to the case directly, no,” I said, “but maybe indirectly. I think I might have found an error in our approach.”

  I felt the hypoglycemia kick in and helped myself to the other half of the Life Savers roll. I replaced my glove and picked my way gingerly through the rest of the pile of books, confirming my suspicions.

  “All I got off the Weller book was some image from the mideighties of the book itself being shelved. Most of these books you pulled are seriously outdated. They’re useless to us.”

  Connor flipped through several of them, checking their copyrights. “Hadn’t really thought of that, kid. Nice catch. A lot of what we end up with in the Resource Room is through donation or leftover from church sales. Not a lot of first-run material. Again, those goddamn budgetary concerns.”

  “I don’t think these books are going to help us,” I said. “They only cover the old Strip of Vegas. There’s the whole new Strip that’s been building up over the past twenty years that isn’t even mentioned in these books.”

  Connor stared at me. “And you know this how, New England boy?”

  “Jesus. Don’t any of you bookworms have cable? I saw it on the Discovery Channel,” I said. “It was a special on building roller coasters. One of them runs right through one of the newer hotels in Vegas. New York, New York, I think.”

  Connor rolled his eyes and reached for his mouse. “I’ll bring up a link to their tourist bureau.”

  The Internet was rarely our first line of investigation, owing to protocol. Between the speculative fiction, blogs, and porn, we simply didn’t have the manpower to sift out legitimate sources from the bullshit ones. Plus a lot of the wisdom of the ancients that resided in the arcane tomes we used had yet to be scanned in. Digital investigation might be the tool of the future, but not until the funding kicked in.

  Within a minute, we had an interactive map covering the modern Vegas Strip. Starting at the Stratosphere, Connor systematically passed the mouse over icons for each of the venues. A window full of stats popped up for each of the hotels, each with the intent of bringing fat-walleted tourists into their oasis in the desert. I started reading the names out loud as Connor scrolled.

  “Stratosphere, Sahara, Slots-A-Fun, Stardust, Frontier, Treasure Island, The Venetian, Mirage, Royale, Harrahs, Paris, Aladdin, Excalibur…I never knew there were so many different places to lose money at.”

  I continued scrolling until the screen revealed one final casino at the farthest end of the Strip, hiding just past the obsidian pyramid of the opalescent Luxor. One final hotel.

  “Mandalay Bay,” I read out loud.

  “Mandalay?” Connor asked, slowly narrowing his eyes.

  “Mandalay,” I agreed. “You don’t think—?”

  Connor interrupted me, finishing my developing thought. “—that Gaynor’s riddle about the wooden fish and ‘following the Vegas trail’ is about Cyrus Mandalay? How many Mandalays do you know?”

  Possibly having solved the riddle felt satisfying, but the dawning realization that Cyrus might be involved in this whole stolen fish business gnawed at my stomach. If so, how? And had we given anything away when we’d walked right into his shop?

  Connor was excited, though. “This is a great lead.”

  “You see?” I said encouragingly. “We don’t have to invoke a power to do every little bit of investigation. Perhaps when a man has special knowledge and special powers like my own, it rather encourages him to seek a complex explanation when a simpler one is at hand.”

  Connor looked impressed. “You come up with that on your own, kid?”

  I shook my head. “Sherlock Holmes,” I said. “Never read it, but one of the books I accidentally triggered off in my past belonged to some guy who really liked the line. It stuck.”

  “Oh,” Connor said, rolling his eyes. “Well, speaking of books, I think it’s time we head back to Tome, Sweet Tome and find out what Cyrus has to say for himself.” The reality of what it would mean if Cyrus was really involved was clearly sinking in. Connor’s face grew angrier by the second. Cyrus had been acting a little shady the last time we had been to the Black Stacks, but wasn’t he someone Connor relied on, after all?

  Sure…for a price. Now it seemed as if all signs were pointing to his involvement in something far more sinister than simply overcharging his customers.

  Connor stood up and headed toward the door without another word, full of purpose. I had never seen this type of silent anger building up inside him. He was going condition critical. As I stood to follow, he called out.

  “Don’t forget your bat.”

  22

  Connor was silent the entire cab ride up to Tome, Sweet Tome, and I sensed the tension in him building. Hell, I felt it myself.

  All because of Cyrus Mandalay.

  Despite the tattoo down the entire left side of his face, his dreads, his sharklike teeth, and imposing figure, Cyrus had always portrayed himself as a good guy—an advocate of reading and responsible arcane usage—and we had believed him. He was supposed to be on our side. If Cyrus was somehow tied to Irene’s death or had dealings with the Sectarians without telling us…

  It sat like a bad taste in my mouth.

  We stopped in front of the bookshop, and I spied Cyrus through the front window. I was surprised to see that rather than wandering casually into the store and then cornering Cyrus, Connor leapt from the cab and sprinted toward the door. Clearly Connor didn’t like playing the fool, and Cyrus’s deception had gotten to him more than I thought. He had thrown caution to the wind. If I was suddenly the rational one, we were probably in trouble.

  I saw Cyrus’s eyes widen through the main window at the sight of a charging Connor, and he took off toward the back of the store. I quickly paid the driver, but by the time I was done, Connor had already flung the doors to Tome, Sweet Tome open and stomped in. I raced in after him, pulling my bat free from my belt as I ran.

  A crowd of kids stood in the teen-friendly section across from the registers, but they were pointing toward the back of the store down an aisle where a stack of books had recently been knocked over. Unheard of at Tome, Sweet Tome.

  Connor dodged some of the still falling books and sped down the same aisle at a full run. He hadn’t even hesitated for a moment to look back and see what I was doing. That was either a sign that his trust in me was growing or that he was too angry to care. Probably a little of both.

  “Cyrus!” he shouted as he ran through the Stacks. “Don’t make me chase you! I really don’t need this exercise, and when I catch you, I’m only going to be more piss
ed off!”

  I paused by the confused-looking teens and smiled. “Stay here. Don’t come any farther into the store.” Another thunderous cascade of books rang out and several of the kids jumped. One of them looked like he was about to throw up. “On second thought, it might be safer if you just cleared out all together. Catch a movie or something. Go start a gang.”

  Slinging my bat over one shoulder, I started down the aisle, slowing occasionally to make my way past several of the literary avalanches. My progress slowed even further as I stopped to check out two stunned customers I came across that had been knocked over in the chase. The first was a dazed older woman who had been shoved face first into the Horticultural Necromancy section, but was otherwise all right. The second was a man clasping his wrist. I stopped for a quick glance at his injury, but possessing no medical knowledge whatsoever, I could only pat him compassionately on the shoulder and point him toward the front of the store.

  “Good luck with that,” I offered, and sped off.

  “Simon!” Connor yelled out from somewhere nearby. “A little help here!”

  As I rounded the corner of the next bookcase, I could see why. Cyrus stood just inside the gate of the Black Stacks with Connor’s head wedged between the gateway and the iron bars of the gate itself.

  Cyrus slammed the gate hard against Connor’s throat and his face turned purple. Cyrus Mandalay would kill him in a matter of seconds if I didn’t intervene, and fast.

  I closed the distance with five bounding steps and swung the bat, aiming for Cyrus on the other side of the gate. I got lucky on the downswing and the bat passed effortlessly between the bars, catching Cyrus on his right shoulder. He stumbled back, and Connor pulled himself free of the bars.

  With Connor’s head no longer in the way, all three of us grabbed for the open gate, but Cyrus was quickest and snatched it closed. The clang echoed back into the Black Stacks.

  “It’s not what you think, gents,” he said.

  There was panic in his eyes, and it felt good to see it. I flicked the bat at his exposed knuckles where he held the gate closed and he flinched.

  “I bet it’s exactly what we think,” I shouted.

  I flicked the bat again, and this time it cracked fully against Cyrus’s right hand, causing him to let his grip on the gate go entirely. He grabbed another section of it, but he looked scared.

  Connor tried to pry the gate away from him, but to no avail. I slammed my bat against the iron bars, rattling them.

  “Relax, kid,” Connor said, grabbing my shoulder to stop my next swing. “We just chain this shut and wait until the D.E.A. shows up. I’m sure Cyrus here will be thrilled to have the Enchancellors upgrade him to a Class 3 Paranormal Fugitive!”

  Cyrus laughed as he slowly backed away. “Do you really think I built the Stacks with only one means of exit?”

  “Crap on toast!” Connor said as he reached through the gate toward Cyrus. He got a handful of Cyrus’s shirt for his effort. Cyrus struggled, but Connor impressively held him fast. “Don’t just stand there, kid. Get him!”

  It was near impossible to open the gate as they struggled through the bars of it. They twisted and pulled at each other through the bars, each of them jockeying for an advantage. With neither man willing to relent, it was the cloth of Cyrus’s shirt that ended up giving way first. There was a tearing sound and both men stumbled back from the gate, finally giving me an opportunity. I threw open the gate, nearly smacking Connor on the head in the process.

  As I closed in on him, Cyrus stumbled farther back into the Stacks. He grinned, showing off his vicious-looking rows of teeth.

  “Black Stacks…attack!” he shouted and turned, running down the next aisle, his dreads bouncing side to side.

  Before I had a chance to take another step, the bookshelves erupted. They shook as books flew recklessly through the air across the aisles. I couldn’t even inch forward, could only watch as Cyrus disappeared down the aisle. Connor finally entered the section and stopped next to me. We looked at the tornado of malevolent literature before us.

  “We’ve got to keep after him,” Connor said, rubbing his throat where the gate had pressed against it. It already resembled the world’s largest hickey.

  “How?” I shouted over the growing flutter of pages and heavily thumping tomes. “We’ll never make it through all this.”

  “We have to try,” he said, and then grinned. “Besides, I got you a present.”

  Connor held up the torn edge of Cyrus’s shirt and dangled it in front of my face.

  “Let’s see what you can do,” he said. “Fetch, kid.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I can divine anything off this.”

  Connor shoved the piece into my hand, then closed his own around mine.

  I didn’t get a chance to argue further. Before I could say that it was probably a useless exercise, Connor pulled his jacket protectively over his head, and dashed off down the aisle into the storm of books. Not one to leave my partner to face danger alone, I wrapped my hands tightly around the bat with the piece of cloth firmly in hand and batted my way after him.

  Between the piles of scattered twitching books on the floor and the occasional ones targeting me as they leapt from the shelves, it was slow going. Several volumes gnawed at my ankles, biting like a pack of rabid Chihuahuas, but with only paper teeth, they were more a nuisance than any real threat.

  I caught up to Connor, my arms already sore from swinging. He was standing at an intersection looking confused. He looked at me.

  “Try,” he said.

  “I can’t,” I said. “Clothing is a hard thing for me to get a reading from.”

  “Don’t give me that,” he shouted, knocking away several flying books. “Remember when I hit you at the Antiques Annex? Tap into that raw emotion you felt, the kind that sparked your power. There’s a science to this!”

  He wasn’t taking no for an answer so I threw my concentration into the strip of cloth and prayed that a book didn’t catch me in the temple while I attempted to pull a vision from it.

  I thought of how Connor had hit me, the pain and shock of it causing my blood to rise. Then I thought of the events of the last few days—Irene’s tearful eyes and her trashed apartment, Jane’s fall through the air and her mangled arm. It could all be Cyrus’s fault. Anger mixed in to the swirl of emotion and I felt the sudden spark of connection to the piece of shirt in my hand. My psychometry kicked in.

  I wasn’t sure how far back in time my mind’s eye was taking me, but I could see Cyrus sometime back in his past carrying a bucket full of building supplies and tools through the Black Stacks. It was hard to tell what aisle he was walking in, but I hoped it would give me some clue as to where he was going now. I needed some kind of visual clue to orient myself. I caught a small sign along one of the rows of books.

  M.

  I snapped myself out of the vision. “Head toward the M’s!” I shouted and dashed off to the right. I plowed my way through fallen books, made two lefts, and then another right before I led Connor into the M section. Cyrus was nowhere to be seen, but the books were even wilder here, harder to push through. I stumbled blindly forward as I attempted to get another reading from the strip of cloth. It took considerably more effort this time to read the item, and when the image came, it was not as strong as the previous one had been. “It’s losing its charge,” I said. I pushed Connor out of the way as a particularly nasty copy of Crime & Severe Punishment flew toward the bridge of his nose. Unfortunately, my selfless act meant that I caught the full force of the book’s corner against my cheek, and immediately tasted blood. But I was still clutching the cloth, and before I could control it, the pain flipped me back into my vision. I saw Cyrus with his tool bucket once again. I pushed back the pain and flipped back out. “Back to the B’s.”

  We must have been on the right track, because as we continued forward, the intensity with which books were throwing themselves at us increased dramatically. I fen
ded off books with such ferocity that I had to make sure I wasn’t in danger of cracking Connor’s skull open. By now, the books were piled knee-deep and our pace grew slower, both from weariness and from plowing the books aside. When we reached the B section, however, there was no sign of Cyrus.

  “Again,” Connor said. He continued to dig away at the books around him.

  I dropped my bat and gathered the piece of cloth in both hands. Concentrating like a kid taking the SATs, I felt weariness set in as I went for my third use of my powers. I hadn’t eaten anything coming into this to boost my blood sugar, and adrenaline was the only thing keeping me going. There was a tiny tingle of connection, but it was so faint I could only make out a quick psychic flash—Cyrus adjusting the hinges on a hidden doorway built into one of the bookcases. Behind the H’s, maybe for hidden, I thought.

  Abandoning the image, I came back to reality, popped a roll of Life Savers out, and quickly began downing them one by one as we pelted toward the H’s. I immediately started to feel less shaky. It still took five minutes to clear our way to the bookcase I had seen. My arms felt like they had been digging for hours.

  We cleared out a space in front of the bookcase. Once there was room to move, I pulled it away from the wall. Behind it was a hallway that led down a short dark corridor and dead-ended at a door. I pulled out my lock picks, but Connor barged ahead of me and kicked it open instead.

  “Sorry, kid,” he said. “Time is of the essence.”

  I prepared to swing at any sign of Cyrus, but when the door fell open, the sight before us caused me to forget all pursuit. We had been prepared for a secret escape route. We were not prepared for a pile of bodies. My arms went weak and the bat fell from my hands.

  Cyrus was nowhere to be found. My first impression was that Connor and I had entered some kind of mass tomb, except it struck me (morbidly so) that there was no stench of rot or decay. The dark room smelled only of the unwashed, some of whom stirred lethargically in response to the thin column of light pouring in behind us. At a quick count, there were close to twenty people lying on the ground—and they all looked like utter crap, but I was relieved that they all looked alive. There were men and women, some old and some young, but they all had one thing in common: their hair was completely white.