John Keats 02 Paper Moon

by Dennis Liggio

  "I thought you said it was your fault?"

  "Yeah, well, now I'm rethinking that, in the light of your refusal to tell me things."

  "Dammit, Charlie, I'm not telling you because these things scare the crap out of me! Not because they can hurt you!"

  "Maybe I need to decide that for myself, John."

  There was a silence. I thought about telling him about the blackness and everything else I hadn't wanted to talk about, but I couldn't. I didn't even want to admit those things to myself. Telling him would make them real. It would mean they weren't just dreams.

  "Let's just get back on the case," I said uncomfortably. "We'll follow a lead and figure things out."

  "You're still pursuing this whole mess?" said Charlie with surprise.

  "I have to... or I feel like I should." Or maybe I can't help it. "Hornswaggle is still... doing whatever he's doing at PBS. We're still in danger. None of that looks like it's going to stop if we just give up. Do you want to see this through or not?"

  "I do, but..." He sighed. "John, I saw Jennifer die. We saw Nick die. I nearly saw you die. Every step forward on this, something bad happens and we're no further to solving it. John, what if we're not helping? What if we're actually making things worse?"

  "I don't know," I said. "I really don't. But do we have other options? I've been attacked multiple times - too many times. Hornswaggle has as much said to me he's a danger to people, possibly even to humanity. That's some super villain level evil. I can't let it go. And while I'm being attacked, they're not letting me give up. I can't stop."

  Charlie paused before answering. "Was it one of his people that stabbed you?"

  What should I say? Should I lie? Should I tell the truth? Should I tell him that some cult wanted me dead, seemingly unrelated to Hornswaggle? I wasn't ready to share the truth yet. "I don't know."

  "You don't know?" His voice was agitated. "You got stabbed and you don't know? Or you won't tell me?"

  "It was so fast..." I lied, but my defense was evaporating in the intense spotlight of his scrutiny.

  "John, I don't believe you. You say to trust you, but I don't have yours yet." He paused, and his tone became less forceful and more tired, more thoughtful. "Not that it really matters anyway. No, I'm not following any leads with you."

  "You're done with this?" I said with shock. "What about all we've seen? What about Nick?"

  "Don't talk to me about Nick," he said. "I'm not out, not necessarily. I'm just taking a step back, making sure the moves I make are the right ones. And for now, I am not sure about you."

  "Charlie, I'm -"

  "Don't. I don't want to hear it," he said. "Look, if you find something solid, better than what we have now, give me a call. I'll think about it. But you haven't got shit right now and I don't want to be fumbling around, getting someone else killed. And stay away from my home."

  "What? Why?"

  "They're following you, John! Isn't that obvious? They might not know much about me, but I'm not giving them that option. My anonymity is my only defense right now. So keep me out of it. If you got something, tell me and I'll come help. But until then, I'm sorry. You need to do this alone until you have something real."

  "But -"

  "I'm sorry, John. I need to go. Bye."

  And with that, I was suddenly alone on the case, which wasn't even a case anymore.

  Sixteen

  At a complete loss where to go on a case? Go back to basics. Collate data. Recheck old leads. Look for something you missed or revisit all suspects. Pray to the gods and saints of investigation for a new lead. For me, going back to basics usually means sitting in my car and just watching buildings the subject uses. In a cheating case, you notice the most interesting things, such as the patterns of other people or behavior you thought was irrelevant that suddenly is so very relevant. What I'm saying is if you have nothing but time, use it. So in the absence of all other leads, I was going back to the PBS studio to see what I could find.

  It wasn't completely aimless. I at least had a hunch. It's not as good as a lead, but hunches are worth trusting. If you have an intuition, a theory, a half sketched idea in your mind, follow it, especially if you have nothing but time. Hunches turn into leads, though sometimes they turn into 6 hours in a ditch with only a large cherry coke from Whataburger as a companion, ending in a sense of disappointment and the need to pee.

  Though it felt like it had been a lifetime ago, I remembered that moment in the parking lot before I was stabbed. It was both hazy and etched unbreakably in my mind, a prelude to the shock and pain. I saw a blue compact sedan peel out of the lot in a big hurry to get away. There was no doubt in my mind that whoever was driving had been masquerading as my "wife" and had gotten Hornswaggle into the hospital to kill Jennifer. I didn't catch its license plate number, but I'd know the car again if I saw it. I would have bet good money that this mysterious woman worked at the PBS studio. The whole building was the center of Hornswaggle's power, and if he had allies, he would have recruited from there.

  My reasoning was simple: I just needed to go to the studio and watch the lot. The car would show up, and I'd just have to watch for the person getting in or out of it. Then I'd go from there.

  That meant driving my own car. It was with uncertainty that I finally walked out into my parking lot. While there was a chance the Seer was waiting for me, that wasn't why I was uneasy. It wasn't the possibility of a Hornswaggle attack either. No, I was nervous about my car. Once my faithful steed or at least a trusted vehicle, now it was something else. It was the place where I bled out, the place where I went to and returned from that dark place. I had some trepidation as I walked over to it, not to the front seat, but to the back seat. I expected it to look like a crime scene, my dried blood staining the entire back. Of course then I'd have wondered why no one had called the cops on it; surely one of my neighbors would have taken a random glance and seen the stains.

  But the backseat wasn't stained - not visibly at least. Someone had thrown blankets and towels over the seats, arranging them both to cover up the cushions and to look just like someone's tacky fashion. That must have been Charlie. His cop instincts must have been to cover up. Though we weren't on good terms at the moment, I appreciated his work. I looked under the blankets, finding a layer of black trash bag. Below that, it looked like he had tried to clean some of the blood. It wasn't as darkly stained as it looked like it had been wiped up. I saw where bleach was attempted, the upholstery was discolored white. Though I was going to have a hell of a time trying to get the backseat anything resembling normal, I appreciated that he had left the car drivable. That almost covered up the unease I had about it. I got in and drove it to the studio. If I was going to get used to the car again, I wasn't going to do so by avoiding it.

  Once at the studio, finding the blue sedan from the hospital was easy. Since the PBS parking lot wasn't big or enclosed, I could see it from a spot in the parking lot of an office building across the street. The high powered lens on my camera made the search trivial. There were only possibly fifty people who worked for the studio, and likely less than that. When I arrived at one in the afternoon, I spotted the blue sedan within a minute. I had a license plate number, which I wrote down, but that didn't help me. I couldn't run a license plate. The police could. Charlie probably could - or he used to be able to, probably not now as he was suspended. Other than the license plate, there wasn't a ton that was helpful in identifying the owner until they showed up. The car had two bumper stickers - one for PBS and another for a previous election. Neither was useful. The first few minutes of my search had been fruitful, but now I knew I was going to have to wait a few hours.

  I did have another possible hunch, but one I doubted would work out. There was still the Puppet Deep Throat - whoever used Higgilty Piggilty to talk to me. They had known about Hornswaggle and Nick. I was pretty sure it was the meek Susan, because it was her puppet and she had heard me asking about Nick. If I could find her, perhaps I could get informatio
n from her. Maybe I'd see her exiting the building. I hoped she was not the owner of the car in question.

  My first order of business when killing time on surveillance duty is turning on music. I scrolled through my music choices on the MP3 player I had in my car. First I thought to put on SVM, but I vetoed that - I decided I didn't want to think about Katie Vanders. Not after that unpleasant memory of that dark, wet room... I thought instead about something else rocking or heavy, but I needed some extra calming in my car because of my unease. After browsing my library, I finally decided on some Sinatra, as I hadn't listened to him in a while. He was always good for my nerves - his voice was calming and confident. I put my feet up during All of Me and let myself drift through the Capitol Years as I watched the studio entrance. I could have gone and gotten food or a drink, but I wasn't going to risk it. While quitting time wasn't for a few hours, I wasn't going to risk the person leaving early while I killed time elsewhere. The biggest danger was sleep, and I had to shake myself awake a few times. I got out of the car twice to jump up and down, getting my blood flowing and banishing a fit of yawning. Some of the employees of the office building whose parking lot I camped out in looked at me strangely, but I wasn't doing anything illegal besides loitering, so they eventually ignored me.

  Employees started leaving the studio about four. I saw Ben and Terry make their way out, as well as some of the puppet actors. Adele left promptly at five, followed by Meredith shortly after. I watched Meredith as she made her way across the lot. It had been two weeks, so she didn't look sad or angry. She just looked tired, either by the tough day or the grief which probably had lingered. I thought about stopping her, maybe to talk about the case. She had yelled at me, but maybe now that she had calmed down I could get her to understand. Maybe I could get her to realize what had really killed Nick. Maybe I could get her on my side in this conflict against Hornswaggle. But in both my heart and my better judgment I knew it was useless. Either she wouldn't believe me and get angry or... or Hornswaggle was already in her mind. She could even have been the mysterious "wife". No, of course not, I said as I shook my head. I had seen Meredith's car before and I was seeing it now as she got into it. Neither were the blue sedan in question. She drove off and I let go of any thoughts of making peace with her.

  It wasn't until after six that I finally saw my target. Almost the whole studio had gone home at this point and there were only three cars left in the lot. When she came out, I could tell even before she got to it that she was heading toward the blue sedan. I didn't know how I felt about her identity. Was I surprised? Maybe less than I would have been with someone else. It was Deb, the producer for the show. When I had met her, she had seemed like she could be very rude, but I had not expected her to be linked with Hornswaggle. Then again, if he could get into people's heads, would someone's personality really matter?

  I took a few pictures with my camera. She got into her car and started to pull out of the lot. I considered following her, but decided against it. What did I think I could gain from that? I didn't want to search her home; I'm not sure if I'd find anything, and I bet she had Hornswaggle dolls in it. That was really the issue. If she was Hornswaggle's confederate, she'd probably have a way for him to be around. Her home and the studio had obvious ways of summoning the beast. What other threats were there?

  I looked back at the pictures I had just taken. She had a Hornswaggle keychain. If I were going to try to talk to her, I'd need to get rid of that immediately. And if I were going to do that, I needed neutral ground. I ran my mind over some possibilities. Once she left the studio, her patterns could be random. Much like the cheating spouses I followed, it could take over a week to establish what her routine was, and that still could be a routine that changes from week to week. I felt like we didn't have that time, not after I had spent two weeks in bed.

  What else? The studio was a constant routine, but the inside was no good. Perhaps the parking lot as she left tomorrow? I nodded to myself. If it followed tonight's pattern and she was one of the last ones out, that could work.

  After Deb drove off, I watched the studio for an hour longer, seeing the lot empty out. Eventually I decided to stop watching, disappointed in my other hunch. I hadn't seen Susan come out and there were no more cars. That was strange. Had I missed her, or had she not been at work today? That hunch seemed a bust for now, so I focused on Deb.

  Before driving off myself, I tried calling Charlie, but got no answer. Was he screening my calls? I had no idea and thought I could drive myself crazy with such thoughts, so I headed home. Pulling into the lot I saw a familiar car and I felt myself tense up. My muscles locked, anxiety rushed through me, and my stomach was instantly upset. It was the green beaten up hatchback. The Seer. I guess she had some inkling of my survival, the rumors of my death greatly exaggerated. I thought about going to threaten her again, as I had done before. But I realized if the message wasn't received then, she wasn't going to get it now. And why put myself at risk? After that first time, she might have decided on a defense if I tried it again.

  To be honest, I just didn't want to see her. After the stabbing, just seeing her aroused anger and panic in me. I was pissed off at her and wanted to confront her, yet I didn't want to go near her and risk being stabbed again. I wasn't sure what I would do if I actually spoke to her again and I didn't want to find out. Instead, I drove out of my apartment complex. I couldn't go home with her watching. I was getting a hotel room for the night.

  Once bedded down at the Motel Six, I called Charlie again. I finally got an answer. This time he didn't answer angry and tired. It was obvious he had been drinking by the slur in his words and the lightness of his tone when he answered. But he sounded sober enough to talk.

  "Charlie, I have a solid lead."

  "What, you spend not even one day out if bed and you got something? You some whiz kid detective or something?"

  Perhaps he had drank more than I thought. Despite that, I tried talking to him about my surveillance. "I know who one of Hornswaggle's allies is. It's someone from the studio. The producer, Deb. I think she's the one who made things go wrong at the hospital."

  "Good for you! Go get her!"

  "Charlie, I need your help. I'm serious. We need to disarm her of a Hornswaggle keychain and keep her from running. It's a two man job."

  "Nah, you'll do fine by yourself! I have faith in you... Well, really I don't, but try anyway!"

  "Charlie... I'm sorry about the trust issues. I know I should have told you more."

  "It's fine, just leave me out. John, I don't want to do this."

  "I'll tell you what you need to know..."

  "John, at the moment, I just don't care! I'd rather stay home and not get killed, thank you. You go die again - I'm sure you'll be fine, just everyone else will die!"

  That stung, but I wasn't going to take the bait. Not while he was drunk. "Fine," I said petulantly and I hung up. I needed help, but Charlie wasn't offering. The only ones offering were ones I wouldn't involve, like Sally and Morty.

  I spent a few hours trying to figure out a good angle to grab and question Deb, but I didn't see how I could both get the keychain and stop her from running. It really was a two man job. Disappointed, I went to sleep in my cheap motel bed. At least nobody was trying to kill me here.

  As far as I knew.

  There was someone standing next to my bed.

  It was the middle of the night, my room dim, but not completely black due to exterior parking lot lights coming through the gaps in the blinds. I knew there was someone there before I saw them, as if I sensed the presence. There was a buzzing sound, as if there was a nest of angry bees in my head.

  I looked over and saw the figure. Black like ink, covered in rolling fluid, as if melting and reforming before my eyes. I tensed, fear coursing through me, but I could not move a muscle. I was frozen in place. My stomach turned, my blood went cold.

  In the darkness I could not see features on the figure, but I didn't know if it had any to see.
I felt stared at, but I saw no eyes. The figure made no movement except a slight rocking back and forth. I became conscious of a mumbling, almost a mantra-like chanting that I could hear beyond the buzzing. Focusing on it brought it to the forefront, the sound suddenly so much louder than the buzz. I couldn't make out the syllables, but it was a persistent whisper, the voice rolling across the words, never pausing for more than a split second. It wasn't the sound of conversation, it was repetition, it was the reading of religious litany. It was the oration of fixed words, someone working through their script as fast as they could.

  Behind the figure, I could see the walls of the dim room. Black water was dripping down them continuously. I don't think a dark tide was rising, even though the walls spilled out blackness endlessly. I could hear the sound of it falling, however. Drip drip.

  I wanted to shout at the figure, to tell them to get away. I wanted to pull myself out of bed, either to fight or to run. I want to scream. But none of these options were available to me. I could only wait, listening, until consciousness finally left me. Was that just a few moments? Or an eternity?

  I don't know.

  Seventeen

  I woke up three times in the night, my stomach in pain. I rushed to the bathroom to throw up the third time, spewing only sticky bile and stomach acid. I felt like there was something deep in my stomach that wouldn't come up. Maybe I now had an ulcer. I didn't want to think about the other possibility.

  I never got back to sleep after the third time. Around eight in the morning I was still in bed, feeling sorry for myself, when I got a call. Charlie. His voice was tired, maybe a little gruff.

  "So I may have spoken too hastily last night..." he said.

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Tell me about this woman..."

  "You're sure you want to know?" I said.

  "John, don't be an ass about this," he said. "I'm willing to be... sorry about last night and speaking harshly, but don't make me do the full on apology. Let's just suck it up and forget it. Tell me what your lead is and what you want to do with it."