The Wizard of Lovecraft's Cafe

by Simon Hawke

  McGuire had dated her briefly shortly after they first met. The memory of that experience still made him wince inwardly. The Gypsy had just helped the department solve a difficult murder case and the press had gotten wind of it. McGuire got caught right in the middle and had to take care of the spin control. Considering her flamboyance, it hadn’t been an easy job. He had felt attracted to her from the beginning. She was so completely different from any woman he had ever met, She had immediately sensed his interest and announced, in a thick, Transylvanian accent, “You find me interesting, no? Something different, an unusual experience, eh?” She had drawn out the word “un-yoo-shoo-all” the way Count Dracula might have done. “You wonder if you can maintain control with such a woman. Hah!”

  The melodramatic Balkan accent was merely an affectation, of course, something she trotted out from time to time merely to amuse herself. Natasha Ouspenskaya, despite her name, hailed not from the Carpathians, but from Roslyn, Long Island. And if McGuire had any remaining doubts about her psychic abilities, they were gone after that first dinner date. She had been able to read him like an open book, something he had found extremely disconcerting. Their relationship, if it could even be called that, had not lasted longer than two or three dates, but they had remained friends and McGuire continued to call on her whenever the department was faced with a particularly baffling case.

  He had expected her to come sweeping flamboyantly into the room when she arrived, making one of her usual grand entrances, but instead she staggered in, supported by a police officer. Her face was white and she looked shaken. “Natasha!” McGuire said, moving toward her quickly. “What happened?”

  “She threw up in the elevator,” the patrolman said.

  “Are you all right?” said McGuire.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Give me a minute.” She straightened up with effort and took a deep breath, pressing her fingers to her temples, then exhaled heavily. She repeated the deep breathing several times before she spoke again. “Whoo. That’s better. It’s not so bad now. Damn, the hell have you got here, Mac?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” McGuire said. “You’re picking something up already?”

  “Picking it up? It’s practically knocking me down! The vibrations in that elevator just about floored me. I’ve never anything like it.”

  McGuire frowned. “And that was just in the elevator?”

  “Somebody died in that elevator, Mac. Died horribly.”

  “Yes, two Bureau agents,” said McGuire, nodding.

  “No… there was only one.”

  McGuire shook his head. “There were two. Agents Silver Whelen. And one police officer. He survived, but he’s the hospital, in critical condition.”

  Natasha shook her head. “No… No, that can’t be.” she insisted. “Only one man died in that elevator, psychic impressions are extremely strong. I could almost his mind screaming.”

  McGuire pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose it’s possible. One of them might have died in the elevator; other one might have died in here and Angelo may have him back in, not realizing he was already dead. I guess could have happened that way. In any case, I’ve got two Bureau agents and one cop in intensive care. I want to what happened here.”

  “Magic,” said Natasha as she started to circle around the apartment, walking slowly with her arms slightly spread out from her sides, her eyes wide and alert, glancing all around, her breathing shallow. “Magic happened.”

  “We already knew that much,” said McGuire.

  “I’m talking heavy magic, Mac,” she said. “Mage-level stuff.”

  “Mage level?” said McGuire. “That’s impossible.”

  “I’m telling you,” she insisted. “There were several extremely powerful adepts here.”

  “Both Agents Silver and Whelen were eighth-level adepts, Natasha,” said McGuire. “But they certainly weren’t mages.”

  “No… No, I’m talking about the people who were living here. And the one who came for them.”

  “It was a raid, Natasha,” McGuire said. “Silver and Whelen came here to make an arrest.”

  She shook her head. “No… He came here to kill.”

  “Who came here to kill?” McGuire asked, frowning and watching her intently as she moved around the room.

  She stopped for a moment and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to concentrate. She let her breath out in an exasperated sigh and shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s all so confusing… There’s just so much here… It’s all getting muddled.”

  “Okay, take it easy,” said McGuire. “Take your time.”

  “I need to have everybody out of here,” she said. “There’s too much interference. I’m getting distracted.”

  McGuire nodded to one of the detectives, who quickly ushered the forensics team out. Several of them glanced at the Gypsy and shook their heads with resignation, but nobody said anything in McGuire’s presence. The deputy commissioner was, after all, the second-highest ranking official in the department. A few moments later only McGuire and Natasha remained in the penthouse.

  “I don’t understand…” Natasha said, staring down at the floor and cocking her head to one side, as if listening to something. “I’m getting the impression that there were only three people living here, but at the same time, I’m registering more. And both impressions feel right. But that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Don’t worry about it for now,” McGuire said. “Just give me whatever you pick up. We’ll sort it out later. If a few details seem contradictory, don’t concern yourself about it.”

  “‘That’s just the thing,” she said with a puzzled frown. “I keep getting completely contradictory impressions. All over the place. I get the sense that the people living here were young… and then, at the same time, I’m picking up a reeling of old age.”

  “Like… how old?”

  “Extremely old. Ancient. Thousands of years…” She stopped and frowned. “Well, now how the hell can that be?”

  “But that’s what you’re getting?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but… it’s crazy. How could anybody be thousands of years old?”

  “But you said you also had the sense the people living here were young.”

  “Well, yes, that, too. It’s very peculiar…”

  “What else can you pick up about them? You said there were three?”

  “Two males and a female,” she said immediately. Then she frowned again and shook her head. “No, that isn’t right. I’m getting one female and one male.” Another headshake.” No, that’s only two, and there were three…”

  “Well, which is it?”

  “I don’t know! Be quiet, Mac, I can’t focus…”

  Her frustration was clearly evident. McGuire had never seen her react this way before. Her psychic impressions were usually so right on the money that she had a tendency to get cocky. This was a new experience for her. He could see that she was thrown by it.

  “It’s the strangest thing,” she said. “I’m picking up different impressions, but they all seem to contradict each other and most of them are completely illogical.”

  “Is it possible that could have been done on purpose?” asked McGuire.

  She glanced at him with a puzzled expression. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. Maybe a spell of some sort, to confuse anyone who tried to get a reading on this place.”

  She thought about it for a moment. “I suppose that’s possible,” she said. “It’s not really my area of expertise, you know. You’d have to ask an adept. But if there was some sort of spell that…” Her voice suddenly trailed off.

  “What is it?”

  “A spell,” she said slowly, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “Yes, a spell…”

  She was on the verge of something. McGuire wanted to press her for details, but at the same time, he didn’t want to say anything that might throw her off. Come on, Gypsy, he thought, you can do it. Come on. Tell me
what went down here.

  “The living triangle…” she said suddenly.

  McGuire quickly took out his notebook and started writing. The Gypsy closed her eyes and spoke again, in a sort of chant:

  “Three stones, three keys to lock the spell,

  Three jewels to guard the Gates of Hell,

  Three to bind them, three in one,

  Three to hide them from the sun,

  Three to hold them, three to keep,

  Three to watch the sleepless sleep.”

  McGuire wrote quickly, getting it all down in his notebook. On the surface, it sounded like some sort of nursery rhyme. Natasha opened her eyes, blinked, and shook her head, as if to clear it. She looked dazed. “What was that?” he asked.

  “I have no idea,” she replied. “It just came to me. It must be some kind of spell.”

  “A living triangle… What does that mean?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know? This place is full of more powerful vibrations than I’ve ever encountered anywhere before. I’m being flooded with so much, I’m having a hard time making sense of anything. It’s like listening to several different pieces of music, all played at the same time. it’s like a psychic cacophony, and it’s driving me crazy!”

  “You want to get out of here for a while?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s exasperating, but I’m all right. I was sick back there in the elevator, but the feeling in here is different. There’s been a tremendous amount of energy released here.”

  “Thaumaturgic energy?”

  “Unquestionably. Have you had forensic adepts in here to scan for trace emanations?”

  “Not yet. You kicked everybody out.”

  “Well, when they do get around to taking a reading, don’t be surprised if it knocks them for a loop,” she said. “Does the name Morpheus mean anything to you?”

  “Morpheus? No. What’s that?”

  “It’s not a what, it’s a who,” Natasha said. “And it’s not his only name.”

  “What about Michael Cornwall?”

  “Yes, that resonates… and Modred,” said Natasha. “He’s also known as Modred.”

  McGuire wrote it down. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Natasha frowned. “But he’s dead. I think.” She shook her head. “I don’t know, I’m not sure… I’m getting something about a rune… It has something to do with the spell.” She cocked her head to one side. “Weird.”

  “What’s weird?”

  “The rune. It’s a weird rune.”

  “A weird rune?”

  “A runestone.”

  “A weird runestone?”

  She frowned. “No, that’s not right…” She exhaled heavily. “I need some time alone in here, Mac.”

  He looked dubious. “The Bureau is going to start getting antsy about that forensics report. They don’t know about you yet and I’d just as soon they didn’t find out. How long are you going to need?”

  “I don’t know. I’m picking up the strangest impressions, Mac. I’ve never experienced anything like this. Either I’m losing it or somebody’s trying to confuse the hell out of me. I’m getting something about a weird rune and a talking broom, for crying out loud. It’s like psychic word salad and it’s giving me a headache. If I can have a couple of hours alone in here, I should be able to make some sense of it all.”

  “Okay,” McGuire said, “two hours, and then I’ve got to send the forensics team back in.” He checked his watch. “I’ll be back for you by six.”

  “If I don’t have something more concrete for you by then, I’ll trade in my tarot deck for The Wall Street Journal.”

  McGuire grinned and took the elevator back downstairs. The forensics team was waiting for him down there, along with the detectives. There was also a crowd of reporters waiting outside, on the sidewalk, desperate to get a story in before the evening newscast.

  “The Gypsy come up with anything?” asked Detective Hank Sloan, from Homicide.

  “She’s still up there,” replied McGuire.

  “Alone?” asked one of the forensics adepts with concern. “Sir, we haven’t even had a chance to go over the place yet and—”

  “Don’t worry, she’s seen enough crime scenes to know not to disturb any evidence,” McGuire said.

  “Media’s in full howl,” said Robinson, Sloan’s partner.

  “Tell them I’ll have a statement for them at the hospital,” McGuire said. “I want to check on Detective Angelo, and at the same time, I want to get them away from here, if possible. The last thing we need is to have them see the Gypsy.”

  “Too late,” said Sloan. “Bunch of ‘em saw her going in. They’ve been asking about her involvement.”

  “Hell, that’s all I need,” McGuire said. “The boss is going to throw a fit.”

  “Bringing her in was your idea,” Sloan said.

  “She gets results, Hank,” said McGuire. “And right now, we need some results, because we haven’t got squat. I’m going over to the hospital. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. See that nobody disturbs the Gypsy while she’s up there. Oh, and Hank, run these and see what you come up with.” He tore a couple of pages out of his notebook and handed them to Sloan.

  “Morpheus, Modred, Living Triangle, Weird Rune, Runestone… and what’s this? Some kind of nursery rhyme?” asked Sloan.

  “It’s what the Gypsy picked up,” McGuire said. “She thinks it might be some sort of spell. Morpheus and Modred might be aliases of Michael Cornwall. The others… I don’t know what the hell they are. See if you can come up with anything.”

  “It’s not much,” said Sloan.

  “It’s a beginning, Hank. Get on it, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  McGuire slipped out through the basement to avoid the press and had a squad car drive him over to the hospital, so that he could check on Detective Angelo. All he knew so far was that Angelo was in critical condition. He wanted to have all the details. When he talked to the press, he wanted to have at least some answers for them. He was hoping that Angelo could supply them. Assuming he could talk.

  At the hospital, he identified himself by producing his shield at the desk, then asked to speak to the doctor in charge of Angelo’s case. He noticed that the nurses exchanged nervous glances when he mentioned Angelo’s name. That wasn’t a good sign. A few moments later a white-coated physician approached him.

  “Deputy Commissioner McGuire? I’m Dr. Ronald Fuller, Chief of Medicine.”

  “Thank you for coming, Doctor,” said McGuire. “What can you tell me about Detective Angelo’s condition? Is he able to talk?”

  “Well,” Fuller began uneasily, “up until a short while ago, I wouldn’t have thought he was capable of anything. Detective Angelo was in a coma when he was brought into emergency.”

  “Was in a coma? You mean he didn’t make it?”

  “Well, apparently, Detective Angelo not only came out of his coma, but he left the hospital,” said Dr. Fuller, looking rather upset.

  “What do you mean he left the hospital? You mean he was in a coma when he came here several hours ago and now he’s been discharged?”

  “No, no, that would be quite irregular,” said Dr. Fuller. “I mean he apparently took it upon himself to leave.”

  “Wait a minute,” said McGuire. “What the hell is this? You’re telling me that a man who was in a coma a mere matter of hours ago suddenly gets up and just walks out on his own steam?”

  “He was seen leaving the hospital,” said Dr. Fuller.

  “And nobody tried to stop him?”

  “Well, I’m afraid I was a bit imprecise there,” Dr. Fuller said. “In point of fact, he was seen leaving his room and going into the elevator. Apparently, no one actually saw him leave the hospital, but we’ve conducted a thorough search of the entire building and he isn’t on the premises.”

  “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of,” said McGuire.

  “It gets crazier,” the doctor repl
ied.

  “Who saw him leave?” McGuire demanded.

  “One of the nurses—”

  “I want to speak to her, right now.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Dr. Fuller. “She’s under sedation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she went into hysterics when she saw him coming out of his room,” Dr. Fuller replied. “You didn’t quite let me finish. Detective Angelo was in a coma when he arrived in E.R. He was moved into a private room and placed on life support. Shortly after that, he was pronounced brain dead.”

  “What?”

  “Look, I know how this sounds,” said Dr. Fuller.

  “Does the word ‘nuts’ ring a bell?”

  “My first response was to ream out the doctor who pronounced him brain dead,” Fuller said, “except he insisted I check out the patient’s E.E.G. myself, which I did, and frankly, I would have made the same diagnosis. Anybody would. It was flat, all across the board. Naturally, I assumed the machine was faulty, so we tested it and it checked out.”

  “So what are you saying, Doctor, Angelo was brain dead, and then he suddenly came back to life and just strolled out of here?”

  “I can appreciate your sarcasm, Mr. McGuire,” Fuller replied. “Believe me, I would have the same reaction in your place. In fact, I did. Until I called in our thaumaturgic pathologist.”

  “Your what?”

  “Our thaumaturgic pathologist,” Fuller repeated. “Almost every hospital has a department of thaumaturgic medicine now, or they’d better have if they wish to remain competitive. There’s a great demand for it. People are opting more and more for magical healing instead of more traditional medical therapy. It’s less invasive, insurance companies like it because it involves less drugs and is consequently less expensive over the long run, and—”

  “Right, get to the punch line,” said McGuire impatiently.