by R. L. King
“What about this,” Stone cut in quickly. “What if I just sat in on a questioning session? You’ve got those rooms with the one-way mirrors, don’t you? He wouldn’t have to deal with me, and the lawyer couldn’t object to that, could he?”
“How the hell would that do any good?”
Stone sighed. “Captain, you remember the case a couple of years back. I’ve got certain…abilities to spot things most people can’t. Do we really need to start back at square one again? That would be tiresome for both of us.”
The line hissed for several seconds as Flores didn’t reply. Finally, he let out a loud sigh. “Fine. This is against my better judgment, but I do remember that case, even if I’m trying to forget it. One condition, though.”
“Yes?”
“No more secrets. If you get anything, you have to share it with us.”
“Of course, Captain.” That, naturally, would have to depend on what he found, but he could go there if it became an issue. “When can I come by?”
“I know it’s short notice, but can you be here in an hour? We’ve got another session with him scheduled for this afternoon.”
“Absolutely. Thank you, Captain. I promise not to cause any problems.”
“I don’t believe you, but I can hope.”
When Stone arrived at the precinct house and gave his name to the desk sergeant, he was met shortly by a detective he didn’t recognize. “I’m Detective Everly, Dr. Stone. Captain Flores said you’d be watching the interrogation today, though I have no idea why.”
Everly was a short, dark-haired woman in her middle forties, who looked like she could handle everything from an unruly suspect to a class full of hyped-up nine-year-olds with equal aplomb. “Pleasure to meet you, Detective,” he said. “Thank you for allowing me to observe.”
She motioned for him to follow her through the maze of desks and busy cops. “You want to tell me what this is about? Why is a Stanford professor interested in a murder suspect from east San Jose? The Cap said you had some connection with the vic?”
“Not the victim per se. I know a friend of hers—Myra Lindstrom.”
“Oh, right, the old lady. But that still doesn’t explain why—”
Stone wondered how much Flores had told her, and decided to tread carefully. “I’ve worked with the captain before. Remember the case a couple of years back, with the murders and dismemberments?”
“I heard about it. I only transferred here a few months ago from southern California, so I wasn’t here when it went down. You worked on that?”
“Yes. My specialty is the occult, and they believed the case to have occult connections.”
“So, did it?”
“Yes, as it turned out.”
“And they think this one does too?” She gave him a skeptical side-eye.
“Possibly, due to the figure that was carved into Ms. Detmire’s back.”
Everly stopped in front of a locked door and keyed in a code. “And what do you expect to get out of watching the interview, Dr. Stone?”
“Not sure yet. I’ve got a certain talent for reading people—I want to see if I spot anything unusual.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe some professor is going to see something trained interrogators don’t, but the Cap says you can be here, so I’m not arguing.” She waved him in ahead of her.
The room was small, with a few chairs arrayed in a line in front of a large window. Another room beyond the window had a table and four chairs, and was currently empty.
“Have a seat. They’ll be bringing him in a few minutes.” She pointed at a phone on the wall. “If you need anything, just punch nine and somebody will come get you.”
“Thank you, Detective.” Stone settled himself in the centermost of the chairs and leaned back to wait. He had no idea whether he’d get anything from the suspect—the mirror wouldn’t attenuate his magical sight as far as auras went, but it might blunt any subtle nuances.
As he waited, his thoughts turned once again to Ian. It still hadn’t quite sunken in that he had a nineteen-year-old son he’d never known about. How did one deal with something like that? Nineteen was certainly old enough to have a nearly fully-formed personality—he wouldn’t have much chance to influence the boy at this point. What if they didn’t get on? It was a very real possibility, after all. Stone had never been good at forming close bonds—it had taken him years to open up to Verity and Jason, and he and William Desmond, despite their long association and enormous respect for each other’s professional capabilities, had never been what he’d call close emotionally. Eddie Monkton and Arthur Ward were valued friends he trusted with his life, but it wasn’t the same. Hell, he hadn’t even been close to his own father. Aside from his two local friends and perhaps Imogen back home, his old caretaker Aubrey was the only human being he’d ever formed any kind of long-term bond with.
What had Ian’s life been like? He barely knew, and most of what he’d gotten, he’d found out from Jason, not Ian himself. The boy had grown up with Jessamy as a single mother, in what sounded like a fairly restrictive environment without a lot of resources. When she’d married Bobby Tanner, that environment had gone from restrictive to downright unpleasant—so much so that the boy had fled halfway across the country at age sixteen to get away from the man. And worst of all, if what Jason discovered was true, his parents hadn’t even bothered to look for him. Stone could see why Tanner might not have considered it a priority, but how could his relationship with his mother have deteriorated to the point where she wouldn’t have moved heaven and earth to track down her runaway son? That didn’t make sense. It also disturbed Stone. With that kind of uncertain upbringing, it was likely Ian was as messed up regarding emotional attachments as he was, and probably with a big side of anger and resentment at both his weak mother and his unknown and absent father.
Nothing’s ever easy with you, is it? he thought wryly.
He was spared further thoughts on the matter as the door in the other room opened. Four people entered: a uniformed officer, a thin man in a suit leading another man in orange prison scrubs, and a chubby woman carrying a briefcase. The cop took up a position next to the door, while the suited man directed the suspect into a chair facing Stone. When he was seated, the woman with the briefcase settled herself next to him. The suited man sat across from them.
Stone took a moment to study the suspect as the detective took care of the preliminary bits of the questioning. He was a short Hispanic man, perhaps forty-five, with salt-and-pepper hair, a large mustache, and beady eyes. He sat calmly, looking neither nervous nor frightened, but he likewise displayed none of the confidence or swagger Stone might have expected in someone well-accustomed to seeing the inside of a police interrogation room.
“Please identify yourself for the recording,” the detective’s voice said over the speaker.
“Joseph Rivera,” the man said. His voice, with a hint of a Mexican accent, didn’t waver.
Stone shifted to magical sight as they asked the man a few more identifying questions, examining his aura. It was a pale, straw-hued gold, and contained none of the dark patches or red flashes that might indicate illness, drug or alcohol abuse, or agitation. Stone listened as Rivera stated his address in east San Jose, his occupation (air-conditioning technician) and his marital status (married, with two grown children). So far, his aura remained steady.
The detective continued his questioning, with the lawyer—almost certainly a public defender—raising occasional objections. Mostly, she looked bored, like she wanted to wrap this whole thing up and get on with the rest of her day. Stone kept magical sight up, continuing to watch Rivera’s aura as he answered the questions. The suspect spoke in a soft, even voice, responding to the detective promptly and without hesitation. He denied any involvement in the murder.
As the interrogation went on, Stone slowly began to get the impression that something wasn’t right. Rivera was showing no signs of emotional agitation, which
didn’t make sense. Either he had killed Amy Detmire, in which case he was facing a long prison sentence—possibly even the death penalty—or he hadn’t killed her, and was merely a middle-aged, blue-collar family man who’d been mistakenly accused of a terrible crime. Either of these situations should have been enough to raise at least minimal turmoil in his aura, but it remained the same steady yellow throughout.
Stone dragged his chair forward until he was pressing his forehead against the smooth cold of the mirror’s glass, and sharpened his perceptions, calling on more of the potent Calanarian energy. He wished Verity were here; she’d never had his raw power even before Calanar, but due to her specialization in health-related magic, she was better at subtle aura-reading than he was.
The detective was clearly growing impatient. “Mr. Rivera—please. If you had nothing to do with the murder of Amy Detmire, then why when we searched your home did we find samples of the same rope used to hang her? Not to mention the knife used to carve the figure into her back was in your dishwasher, and your shoes matched prints found at the scene. I’d say that’s pretty damning evidence, wouldn’t you?”
“You don’t have to answer that, Mr. Rivera,” said the lawyer. She sounded as if she were speaking by rote, saying the things expected of her.
Stone didn’t pay attention to the rest of their words, because this time he did spot something: Rivera’s aura flickered at the detective’s accusations.
It didn’t flare. It didn’t light up red. Instead, it made a sudden but brief shift, as if trying to compensate for something. Rivera likewise shifted in his chair, but only for a second—it looked more like a momentary bout of gastric distress than a nervous gesture. Then his face was calm again, and he shook his head. “I don’t know how those things ended up in my home, Detective.”
Stone checked out of the conversation again, replaying what he’d just seen in his mind’s eye. He’d seen something like it before, but he couldn’t put his finger on where. Something involving the manipulation of the aura by an outside force—
And then he had it.
He tightened his grip on the metal chair arms and focused his gaze on Rivera.
Bloody hell, someone’s put him under a magical oath!
22
This time, Ian met Blake downtown in San Jose. They walked along a busy street as they talked, watching late-afternoon window-shoppers drift by.
“So,” she said, “how does it feel to have a daddy?”
“Weird.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not a surprise. So what’s the next step? Are you moving in with him? Is he setting up your own room for you, with model trains and baseball posters and a big blue teddy bear?”
He shot her a glare. “That’s getting old, you know.”
“Yeah, sorry. But I was serious about part of it. Are you moving into his place?”
“No. Not yet. It didn’t seem like the time. He invited me to, but I think he would have been suspicious if I’d taken him up on it this soon. I think he’s having a hard time accepting who I am, even though he knows the truth now.”
“Not surprised. Like I said, he might come across as a nice guy at first, but he’s smart, and he’s a manipulator. Don’t ever forget that. He also sucks at getting close to anybody.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. Hell, he came right out and said it. He said he was ‘rubbish at relationships.’”
“The fact that he’s forty, straight, hot, and hasn’t ever been married should have been your first clue.”
Ian shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not like we’ll need to put up with each other very long.”
“Just keep playing your part. Do you think you can get him to accept you?”
His smile was almost as shark-like as hers. “Oh, yeah. It won’t be a problem. I watched his aura—he might be a cold fish like you said, but I’m sure he feels guilty about not being part of my life. I can work with that.”
“Good, good. The closer you can grow that bond in the next month or so, the sweeter it’ll be when we take him down.” She ambled along for a while in silence, glancing in the shop windows. “So, what next? Have you two made any plans yet?”
“I’m supposed to find a place to stay in Palo Alto. He says he’ll pay for it. And he wants me to come by his place so he can talk to me tonight. About something he says he doesn’t want to discuss in public.”
Her eyes glittered. “Ah, so he’s getting right to it, then.”
“You think he’s planning to tell me about magic?”
“Oh, hell, yeah. I’m sure he’s already all lathered up about having a magically-talented son he can train.”
“I thought parents didn’t train their kids. That’s why the whole apprentice thing exists, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, usually. But you don’t know Stone. He’s great at rationalizing things so they work out the way he wants. He’ll probably figure since you didn’t grow up together, it’ll be different. He’ll want to have you under his thumb, where he can keep an eye on you.”
“So, should I let him?”
She pondered. “Well, as soon as he does an examination on you, he’ll know you’ve got potential—and a lot of it. But as long as you haven’t been doing any magic, he won’t be able to see you already know what you’re doing. Probably best if you keep it that way. Play dumb.”
“And if he tries to teach me? If he shows me magic, I can’t very well deny it exists.”
“No…true. Just—” Her smile widened. “I’ve got it. This will be fun. Let’s find out how good an actor you really are.”
“What?”
“When he shows you magic, act excited—and even more so, when he tries to teach it to you. But then suck at it.”
“What?” Ian glared at her.
She laughed and patted his arm. “Suck at it. Be bad. Act like you’re trying as hard as you can, but you just can’t figure out how to do more than basic stuff. That will drive him batshit. Mr. Genius I’ve Got All The Power, with a son who’s riding the magic short bus. Trust me, Ian, it’ll throw him off track like you wouldn’t believe. Also, it’ll solve another problem I was concerned about.”
“What’s that?” Part of Ian rebelled against her suggestion; he was damn good at magic—better than she knew, even, and maybe even better than she herself was—so the idea of pretending to be minimally proficient didn’t do anything for his ego. But she was right: he was a good actor, and this would be a different sort of challenge for him.
“Stone’s a white mage. I know, hard to believe, right? But white magic doesn’t equate to being a goody two-shoes. I’ve known some big-time hardasses who never went black. But if he tries teaching you white magic, he’ll figure out real soon that something’s up. This way, you’ll have an excuse for not being any good at stuff like wards and permanent enchantments.”
Blake had explained the difference between black and white magic to Ian shortly after they’d begun studying together, emphasizing how much more versatile the black variety they both shared was. He felt occasional regret that he wouldn’t have access to some useful white-magic techniques, but who needed to store magic when they could bleed it off people in crowds instead? It was a trade-off, and in any case he knew that, ever since Bobby, there was no going back.
“What do you think he’d do if he found out I was a black mage?” he asked.
“Hard to say. I don’t think he’d kill you—not his own son—but he’d lose a lot of respect for you. He’s always been sanctimonious about the whole ‘I’m a white mage and I’m better than all you black-magic scum’ thing. Better if he just doesn’t find out—not until the end, anyway.”
Ian pondered that, and wondered why he even cared if Alastair Stone had any respect for him. The whole thing was irrelevant anyway. Instead, he changed the subject. “Have you figured out how we’ll do it, when the time comes?”
“How we’ll kill him?” She dropped her volume and leaned in close, so none of the shoppers could catch her words. “No, not yet. That�
��s on purpose. I want to play it by ear, see how your relationship develops. I’m sure something will present itself. It’s really too bad neither one of you is the outdoor type—the easiest way would be to get you off somewhere alone. Up in the mountains, off hunting or fishing, that kind of thing. But that’s not happening, is it?”
“Hell, no.” Ian curled his lip in distaste, shuddering as a sudden memory resurfaced. Bobby Tanner had tried once, back when he was twelve and before their relationship had gone entirely into the toilet, to take Ian hunting, to “make a man out of him.” Ian had hated every minute of it, refused even to touch one of Bobby’s hunting rifles (partly because he didn’t want to kill any animals, and partly because he was afraid of what he might be tempted to do to Bobby if he had a weapon), and ended up spending most of the trip moping in the camp. He’d gotten one of his first whippings after that when they’d returned home, but Bobby had never tried taking him hunting again. Perhaps he’d caught on, in some subliminal way, to Ian’s second reservation about handling guns.
“Eh, don’t worry about it. We’ll figure something out. As long as I get to see his face right before we kill him, I’ll be happy. I don’t need it to go down any particular way.”
23
Thirteen months ago
Ian hadn’t realized how being back in his home town would affect him.
He sat in the boring rental sedan Blake had arranged for him (he hadn’t asked how she did it, but she assured him it wouldn’t be traceable to either of them), parked on the street across from his old home. His stomach clenched, his mouth felt dry, and his heart thudded hard under his tight blue T-shirt. His hands shook on the steering wheel.
The house was unassuming in its neighborhood: two-story, white, with a green door and a gray shake roof. On this evening in early December, it had a green wreath on the door, a Nativity scene with a He Is Born banner in the front yard, and multi-hued Christmas lights sparkling from the eaves. A cozy glow shone from the lower-story windows. Along with the other houses in its vicinity, it made a perfect picture of small-town holiday cheer.
