Dark Matter

by R. D. Cain

  Nastos continued, “Well, it wasn’t Lindsay. But there was a young girl’s body found today. Carscadden and I went by and confirmed it — the police found a dead girl near Morningside Park this morning. I wanted you to know that it isn’t Lindsay, but the police aren’t releasing the name yet. I don’t want you to be in a state of limbo over any delays.”

  Craig answered. “I guess I appreciate your consideration.” He seemed to read the hesitation on Nastos’ face. “But . . .”

  “But she was a lot like Lindsay — young, blond, skinny. She may have been murdered by someone who will kill again.”

  Craig’s face turned pale. He checked left and right, looking for something. Claire reached for the box of tissues from the table and handed them to him. He rubbed his hands on his pants, then ran fingers through his hair.

  Nastos continued. “She’d been reported missing too. How long has it been for Lindsay?”

  Craig couldn’t do the math. Clearly his mind was reeling.

  “Twenty-six days?” Nastos asked. “Something like that?”

  Craig’s voice cracked. “Oh, god!”

  “Carscadden and I are going to do everything we can.”

  “You think somebody has her someplace? God, he could be doing —”

  Nastos put a hand on Craig’s shoulder. “Don’t think like that. There was no sign this girl was abused. Don’t let your mind play tricks on you.”

  It was an awkward silence. Carscadden said, “Listen, it’s time we went.” He added, “Craig, can we talk to you quickly outside the door?”

  “Sure.” Craig blew his nose and stood up, still shaken. He stocked up on a few more tissues and followed Nastos and Carscadden into the hallway.

  Carscadden turned to Craig. “That Anthony character, all he’ll do is waste your money. But there’s a chance he will help your wife feel better, like everything is being done.”

  “I guess.”

  Craig asked Nastos, “You ever heard of this Anthony loser?”

  “No, should I have?”

  “I’ve been on his website. Looks like he did help the police find a body years ago. Since then, he’s been a psychic to the stars. He had a radio show for a while. But he’s slowly slipped off the face of the earth. In a few days he has Casa Loma booked for a TV show. He’s sharing some revelation with the world.”

  Nastos considered this. “You think this helping you is just some publicity stunt?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, looks like your wife wants him in. So I guess you’re out-voted.”

  Craig shrugged. “Marriage is all about winning battles and losing wars.”

  Nastos asked, “How did your wife get a hold of him?”

  Craig shook his head. “She didn’t. There was a flyer in the mail, I think. I’m not entirely sure. She says she called him; I’m not pushing the issue. Apparently he says he can probably help us find our daughter.”

  Anthony Raines closed the door behind him and sucked in a breath of the fresh fall air. Courtesy of Mr. Nastos’ provocations, it looked like the Bannermans were ready to pay someone else through the nose to get their daughter back. This was working out perfectly.

  He made note of the license plate on the Ford Escape in the driveway. The validation tag on the plate was December, which likely meant Carscadden was a Sagittarius. Bruce had kept himself busy surfing the web with his iPad in the front seat of the Civic. Leaning against the Escape, Anthony pulled out his BlackBerry and did a Google search on Nastos. He was surprised by the length of the return, for a nobody. He sat in his car and read through a few pages. He recalled the story about a cop charged with murder; he hadn’t realized that that was the man he had just met. He was a celebrity, of sorts. Anthony read through a few articles looking for something useful, personal information.

  Cops always protect their home address, though he did find the street name. Then Anthony read that his wife was a real estate agent. He brought up the Toronto Real Estate Board website and did an agent search for Nastos. There was only one. Madeleine Nastos. He clicked the link and found a picture that showed Madeleine standing in front of her car, a grey Honda Odyssey.

  Anthony’s concentration broke when he realized that there was a photographer outside the gates, snapping away in his direction. Forgot I hired her again. He had managed to get the photographer from Toronto Today to take pictures of him leaving the Bannerman residence. Sliding into the Civic’s passenger seat, Anthony ignored the photographer and instead concentrated on getting to Nastos’ residence. Time for a little reconnaissance.

  From the driver’s seat Bruce asked, “Back home?” He smiled, running his eyes down Anthony’s body.

  “Not your turn, loverboy — we have a stop first.”

  Homecrest was a quiet street ending in a cul-de-sac to the east of Meadowvale, south of Lawrence Avenue. Driving past the house, Anthony had gotten lucky and seen the Honda Odyssey in the driveway. It was a nice place: red brick, white shutters and a well-maintained lawn with flowerbeds filled with seasonal plants. Curb appeal. Anthony smiled. His little lawyer friend has a bit of curb appeal too.

  Anthony noted the license plate numbers in the driveway and the validation stickers. It looked like Nastos was Pisces, Madeleine a Taurus. He made a mental note. Movement caught his eye in the rear-view mirror; it was a car stopping just behind him. It was Carscadden and Nastos. Nastos exploded from the car and charged Anthony’s window. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Anthony wanted Dr. Bruce to just hit the gas, but it was too late for that. How the hell did he get here so fast? He rolled down his window and produced a smile. “I was going to drop off a flyer for your wife. Do a free reading.” He didn’t have any flyers and Nastos didn’t look as if he’d be too receptive to taking one anyway.

  “It’s disgusting, what you’re doing to that family. Leave them alone.”

  Anthony could see he’d be lucky to leave with all of his teeth. “Just trying to help. You’re a non-believer — I get that.”

  “They’re going through hell, pal. Leave them alone. And if I ever find you in front of my house again, I’ll cave your face in.”

  “Sorry.” Anthony rolled up the window and then Bruce did hit the gas. What have I just done?

  12

  Anthony was still thinking about the confrontation with Nastos when he saw that on his own street — no, at his own house — something was wrong. At this time of day there were never so many cars parked on the street. People around here had money and weren’t the type to throw parties during the day for no reason. As he drew closer, he saw the occasion. A contingent of unmarked police cars was parked in front of his house. There was a squad car in his driveway and a uniformed officer standing outside his front door with a clipboard, writing stuff down and checking his watch.

  Bruce said, “Looks like you’re famous again.”

  He tried to sound flirtatious. “I can think of worse things than a house full of cops.”

  Bruce pulled to a stop at the side of the road a few houses back. “Yeah, well, I’ll let you out here, if you don’t mind.”

  Anthony gave Bruce’s hand a squeeze and exited the car. He turned his attention to his house and the show the police were putting on.

  Oh my god, Greta. Anthony nearly had a stroke when he saw Greta, the neighbour from a few houses down, on his front porch. A bored stay-at-home housewife, she liked to take Anthony’s dog Ginger for walks. Sometimes in the summer she’d come over for the dog but they’d end up getting drunk on margaritas by the pool. He confronted the officer standing at his door. “This is my house.”

  The officer didn’t look up from his writing. “Good. They’ll want to talk to you. One sec.” He smiled at Anthony, then spoke into his radio. “Detective Blake, your guy is at the front door.”

  Greta turned from the officer and spoke to Anthony. “When I saw th
e commotion — well, I thought it would be a good idea to get Ginger out of everyone’s way.”

  Anthony was relieved. “Thanks, Greta.” He could see that she wanted to know what was going on but didn’t want to ask. So he told her.

  “I helped the police find a missing girl today. My information was so accurate they have to make sure I wasn’t involved.”

  She looked at the cop with the clipboard, who shrugged. “Yup, that’s why we’re here.”

  She was impressed. He had shown her some of his skills in the past, but this was going to make him a legend. “Anthony, I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen what you can do for myself.”

  He shrugged, trying to play the reluctant hero. Greta tugged on Ginger’s leash. The dog had never turned down an extra walk.

  There was no verbal response on the cop’s radio, just the sound of two clicks of the mic being pressed. Moments later, Detective Blake came to the door.

  “Come on in.” Blake smiled broadly and waved for Anthony to follow.

  “Nice of you to invite me into my own house.”

  “Like you said in my office, you’ve been through this before.”

  Blake led him into his own home office, taking at seat at Anthony’s desk. He opened a manila envelope and spread out the contents, sheets of printed paper.

  Blake produced a pen from his inside pocket and gestured for Anthony to have a seat. Anthony scanned the room. The books on the shelves had all been knocked over, the couches had been dragged out of position and the cushions tossed. Anthony pulled the leather chair over and sat.

  Blake smiled. “Yeah, we kind of had to have a look around.”

  Anthony asked, “For blood?”

  “Any kind of human tissue, electronic records. I have your phone records here, the last two months’ worth. I’d like you to go over the numbers with me. I’m also going to need an account of your time over the last forty-eight hours. You know, all the basics for a case like this.”

  Anthony suppressed a smile. With his words, Blake had given every impression that it was just procedure, and that he had no expectations; however, Anthony saw behind the veneer. There was something behind Blake’s lingering eyes. If he’s trying to get a read on me, he’s out of his league. Detective Blake, you’re in the presence of a master.

  Blake spread out the phone records. “Why don’t you tell me who these people are you’re calling?”

  Anthony pulled out his cell phone and brought up the address book. In fifteen minutes, Blake had made notes on every number.

  “And now your itinerary for the last two days?”

  Anthony reached over Blake, grazing his thigh while opening the desk drawer. His appointment diary was gone, and everything else in the drawer looked like it had been gingerly put back in place and reorganized by drunken orangutans.

  Blake opened his jacket and produced Anthony’s scheduler. “I think you’re looking for this.”

  Anthony wondered how much of the book he’d been through. There were men listed in that book, powerful men, who wouldn’t want it known that they had a relationship or an arrangement with Anthony. “Good thing you found it. It’s important to me.”

  Blake flipped through a few pages. “I haven’t called these people yet, but if it checks out, it looks like your time is accounted for.”

  “Go ahead and call them.”

  “Who would have thought so many people came to see psychics.”

  Anthony refused to eye the book in the detective’s hand. Blake was watching him closely, looking for nervousness — which of course Anthony would not let him see. A strong man had come in here, in control, and had invaded his space. This man was running the show. At any moment the man could use the power of his badge to force Anthony into the bedroom, onto the couch, even against the door, and there was nothing he could do about it. The fantasy provided Anthony the perfect diversion. Blake probably anticipated that Anthony would crumble under the pressure. Anthony considered the reality that Blake didn’t know how right he was.

  Blake smiled and averted his gaze, looking instead at the laptop on the desk. He pressed the button and the screen came to life. His face wrinkled. “Password, eh?”

  “Must you?”

  “I must.”

  “Elton. The password is Elton.”

  Blake kept smiling, saying nothing. He typed in the password and the desktop icons appeared.

  Anthony came around the desk, standing next to Blake. “If I knew what you were looking for, maybe I could help?”

  Blake opened the web browser and bought up Google Maps and MapQuest in separate tabs. He jotted down the recent addresses that had been looked up in his notebook. Anthony said that none of the addresses were going to be significant. Blake asked, “We went through the entire house. You live here all by yourself?”

  Anthony knew the delivery was critical. It was easy to lie after you have convinced yourself it’s the truth. And just to be sure, he gave Blake something else to think about. “Yes, I do. Maybe if I get lonely, I could give you a call, Detective?”

  Blake’s perma-smile broadened. He knew Anthony was just trying to make him uncomfortable to be funny. “No, thanks. I have everything I need.” He stood up, leaving the computer screen on, and put his notebook in his jacket pocket. “Just once and for the record, Mr. Raines, how did you know the body was there? I’m guessing you were out on a walk and happened upon her. Maybe you dreamed up this psychic revelation to help your business along? Did you just get lucky or something?”

  He considered allowing Blake the victory for just a second. But the plan was the plan and Blake’s clumsy charms, unintentional as they were, were not going to work.

  “I told you, Detective. I had some disturbing dreams the other night. It’s happened once before, I hope it never happens again. I could smell her — the air was so thick, in my dream, that I could taste it. I can still see the image in my mind . . . feel her tortured soul.”

  Blake shook his head. “Well, that’s a hell of a problem you have.”

  After the cops were gone, Anthony grabbed a cold Corona from the fridge and sat it down on the table in his study. He slid the drawer open and lifted out a box that contained his tarot cards. He dried the condensation from the cold beer on his pants and opened the box, setting the lid aside and folding back the black satin cloth that covered the deck. He lifted them out and spread the cards out in his hands with the face sides away from him, then slid them back together, just to get a feel for how the cards were moving.

  Cold readings were so much more difficult. As experienced as he was, every good chance guess was still a guess. Every trick, angle and manipulation was part of a complicated balancing act between showmanship and divination that in some ways seemed to become more difficult over time. The raw skills he had, the ability to keep the magic fresh, was a different story — that was innate. Tarot was so much easier with its science — he liked to let the science carry the burden from time to time.

  Shuffling the cards, he reflected on the difficulty of having faith in himself, and how it had never been easy. Then the dream came that changed everything. Now he was on a frantic mission to save the world. Making life and death decisions was something he hated; no matter how sure he was when sacrificing a few to save many, it was still a responsibility he would readily abdicate.

  Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, Anthony concentrated on one thought as he slowly manipulated the deck: Nastos. He divided the tarot deck in two, then carefully folded the piles together on the table. Next he held them all in one hand and slid out large sections with the other, putting them in somewhere else. He did this exactly three times. There was one awkward card; he removed it and set it aside without a second thought. Last, he sequestered small sections out of the deck and turned them upside down, all while keeping the faces of the cards looking away from him. He placed the deck fa
ce down on the table and spent a moment imagining the face of Nastos as best as he could recall.

  Anthony was going to use his six-card spread, a Celtic cross. The first card was the centre; the second card went on top of it, rotated ninety degrees. He put a card to the right, one at the bottom, then on top and on the left side. As he might have suspected, the centre card, the card at the heart of the matter, was the Magician.

  The Magician is a transformer. Through will power, he can manipulate the elements into any substance, into the materials of life. From nothing, he can create something. His number is one. The Magician is a man to fear. From the card’s position, Anthony understood him to be a threat.

  A man with near-divine power to transform himself, as if he were in fact a conduit for a higher power. While performing the tasks of deities, he would appear to those of this world to be practicing magic.

  The cards above, below and to either side were just as troubling to Anthony. They made up the shape of the cross and signified what the Magician was willing to sacrifice for. The top centre card was the card of Justice.

  The card of Justice ensures that certain laws cannot be violated, only enforced. The first is the law of cause and effect; the second is the law of karma.

  Cause and effect ensure that all events of the present are the result of all past states. Karma signifies that all your actions return to you eventually.

  As I sow, so shall I reap. The thought sent shivers down his spine. Nastos was going to sacrifice everything — more than he would even know himself at this stage — to bring Anthony down to the master he served: Justice.

  Anthony felt his shirt sticking to his back from sweat; a large bead of wet salt slid down the side of his face. He eyed the deck of cards. The next card was the most important. It had been laid sideways over the middle card and it signified what, if any, action he could do to stop the fate that was coming to him. It had to be laid sideways because it represented taking a chance of angering karma, which was already conspiring against him. He closed his eyes and flipped the card, pausing only briefly to touch it, hoping to feel something good was on the way. All he felt was the waxed back of the deck, cool and unreadable.