The Other Side: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  “Didn’t they tell ya?” Duncan’s Hollywood cool slipped a bit as he seemed taken aback. He too glanced at Mortenson, who still didn’t respond.

  “Tell me what?” Stone hoped, and it appeared it was indeed the case, that Duncan and his people hadn’t checked with anyone to see if they’d even told him what was going on, but merely assumed the right people would fill him in and he’d show up at the meeting eager to sign on to this madness.

  “Oh, you’re gonna love this,” Duncan said, grin reappearing. “You’ve heard of The Other Side, certainly.”

  “Vaguely. I think my students mentioned it once or twice.”

  Duncan looked at Mortenson again. If it were possible for a real human being to have an interrobang hovering above his head, he would have had one. Still, he recovered quickly. “I can’t believe an occult expert like you hasn’t heard of The Other Side. It’s only the hottest supernatural reality show on the air.”

  A waiter came in pushing a cart with salads, so Stone took the last remaining chair, across from Mortenson. “Ah. Right. The ghost-hunting thing.”

  “It’s not ghost hunting,” Bryce Riley said, sounding grumpy. “We investigate all sorts of occult phenomena all over the country.”

  When Stone didn’t reply, Duncan jumped into the silence. “Anyway, we’re hot-hot-hot. And we’re going to be doing an episode up in Brunderville, in the Gold Country. One of your alums has been after me to do it for a while now, and I finally got a spot in my schedule for him. He arranged for me to talk to Dr. Mortenson here.” He waved in her direction without facing her.

  “She did mention it,” Stone said. “In passing. What I’m a bit confused about is what I’m doing here. Dr. Mortenson is a respected expert in the field. I’m sure you and she can—”

  Duncan held up his hands. “Yeah, but see, ever since you walked into her office that day, I knew you were the guy we had to have. I mean, listen to that accent! The ladies will be crawlin’ all over that. Ladies love British accents, don’tcha know?”

  Stone didn’t answer. He glanced at Mortenson, who’d become very interested in her salad.

  “And the thing is, I did a little checking up on you. You’re a rock star, man! Student approval ratings in the stratosphere, a whole crapload of papers published, articles—how lucky am I to get a guy with that kind of academic bona fides, and looking like you? It’s like God just opened up the heavens and said, ‘Larry, my man, this is your lucky day’!”

  Stone stared at him. Once again he didn’t respond, but this time it wasn’t because he chose not to—it was because he was literally at a loss as to how to reply to that. Instead, he snatched quick glimpses at Mortenson and Riley. The former was still deep in the study of her salad, while the latter regarded Stone as if he were a bug he’d found perched in his.

  Clearly, though, they were all waiting for him to say something. “Er—” he said after a long pause. “I’m—er—flattered that you might think so. But as I said, I do think you’ll be better off with Dr. Mortenson. I’m not really the television type.”

  “See, Larry? He doesn’t even want to do it,” Riley said.

  “Bryce, baby, lemme do the talking, okay?” Duncan plucked a cherry tomato out of his salad and set it aside in a surprisingly fastidious gesture. “Stone, I’m tellin’ ya, this is gonna be huge. Great exposure for your department, and for you personally. And I can make it worth your while, don’t you worry. It’ll be like a vacation. A paid vacation. A well-paid vacation. Spend a few days up in some pretty country, film a few interviews, walk through a couple spooky old houses with Bryce and make with the patter in that gorgeous accent, and you are golden, my friend.”

  Stone sighed. “Mr. Duncan—”

  “There’s also the matter of the donation,” Duncan interrupted. “Maybe you haven’t heard about that either?”

  “Donation?”

  Mortenson looked up from her salad and flashed Stone a questioning look, but didn’t say anything. It didn’t matter, though: Stone got the impression that at this point, she could have jumped up on the table, ripped off all her clothes and danced the Charleston, and Duncan still wouldn’t have noticed her unless she stepped in his lunch.

  “Yeah. Mr. Landry—the alum who helped set this up—has offered to divert some of his generous annual donations to the University to your department if you’ll agree to participate.” He assumed what he probably thought was a kind, fatherly demeanor. “I know Stanford’s rollin’ in money, Doc, but I’m kinda gonna doubt that the Occult Studies department—or even the Anthropology department—is typically a big recipient of that largesse, am I right?”

  Stone blinked, still playing his part. “So you’re telling me that a wealthy alumnus wants me to be part of this dog and pony show so badly that he’s willing to donate significant funds to the university to make it happen?”

  Duncan snorted. It sounded like pfah. “No, no. He doesn’t know you from Adam’s cat. I want you to be part of the show. I knew it ever since I met you. So I had a little chat with Mr. Landry, and since it’s in his best interests that the show be a hit, he’s agreed to take my professional opinion regarding appropriate experts.”

  Stone studied one of the paintings on the wall behind Mortenson, appearing to examine his options. “So then,” he said after a short time, “if I were to agree to participate, then Dr. Mortenson and I would both be part of the show?”

  Duncan at least had the grace to look uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat and took a swallow from his wineglass. “Uh…well…about that. I’m afraid we only have the budget for one expert, so…”

  “Well, that’s easy, then: you don’t have to pay me. I don’t need the money. And I feel a bit wrong anyway about taking payment for offering what you claim is expert scholarly opinion. Since I’ve made no secret about the fact that I don’t want to do this, and Dr. Mortenson does, then—”

  “Dr. Stone—” Mortenson began. Her expression was difficult to read: somewhere between hope and frustration.

  “Uh…” Duncan spoke up again, looking even more uncomfortable. “Well…that is…that’s very magnanimous of you, Dr. Stone. But I’m afraid we can only accommodate a single expert.” His chuckle was forced. “Don’t want to crowd Bryce, you know? He doesn’t like too many cooks in his kitchen, yeah?”

  “Hey, I—” Riley spoke up.

  “Yeah,” Duncan said, loud enough to cut off anything else his star might have continued with. “So what do you say, Dr. Stone? Are you in? Just say the word and we’ll have the contract sent to you so you can have your lawyer look it over. Filming starts in late December and should only last a few days. That should coincide nicely with your winter break, right?” Before Stone could answer, he clapped his hands. “Great, then! So nice talkin’ to ya, Doc. Seriously, this show is gonna be the best one yet.” He made as if to rise.

  “Wait,” Stone said. “I haven’t said yes yet.”

  Duncan dropped back into the chair, eyes widening. “But I thought—”

  “Let’s drop the act, Duncan.” Stone narrowed his eyes and switched from his former expression of pleasant confusion to something more hard-edged. “You want me for this farce. You’ve made that abundantly clear. You think I’ll cave because I won’t risk losing that big stack of money Mr. Landry is dangling in front of the department—and you’re half right. I’ll go along with this, because I don’t want valuable programs to lose out because of my reluctance. But I’ve got a condition, and it’s not negotiable.”

  “Name it, baby.” Duncan didn’t seem at all put out by Stone’s change of attitude. In fact, he almost seemed as if he’d expected it.

  “You include Dr. Mortenson as a consultant as well. She goes along to this—Brunderville, did you say?—participates in the shoot and the preliminary interviews, and is treated with the respect an expert with her credentia
ls deserves. Oh, and naturally you won’t even think about filming her segments with the intent of having them end up on the cutting-room floor.”

  Duncan frowned. Clearly, that was not what he’d expected. “Doc, I told you—we’ve only got room for one—”

  “Take it or leave it, Duncan. Don’t try to tell me rules in your line of work aren’t made to be broken.”

  “Dr. Stone—” Mortenson sounded stricken. “You can’t. The department—you have to—”

  “I don’t have to do anything, Edwina. Mr. Duncan has stated his desires. I’ve stated mine. How much do you want me, Mr. Duncan?”

  “Let him go,” Riley said, glaring at Stone. “We don’t need him.”

  But Duncan didn’t even appear to hear him. “Fine,” he said. His tone was half grudging, half reluctant respect. “Fine. Dr. Mortenson, congratulations, you’re in. But we still can’t up the budget.”

  “Not a problem,” Stone said. “I already told you—you don’t have to pay me.” He stood. “Thank you, it’s been lovely. Send the contracts—and make sure both mine and Dr. Mortenson’s include the new stipulations. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some actual academic work to do.”

  He didn’t look back as he left the room, but he didn’t have to. He could almost feel their gazes—all three of them—boring into his back.

  Despite his best efforts to avoid her, Mortenson intercepted him at the door to his office after his next class. “Alastair, could I speak with you for a moment?” she asked. Her expression was impossible to read. Surprisingly, so was her aura.

  “Er—of course. Come on in.” He entered his office and waved her toward a chair.

  She sat down and took a deep breath. Her demeanor suggested that she was trying to organize her thoughts, and that perhaps she hadn’t expected him to show up quite as soon as he did.

  “How did the rest of the lunch go?” he asked. “Sorry I left early, but if I stayed longer, I’d probably have said something I’d regret.”

  “It didn’t last much longer. Mr. Duncan suddenly remembered an urgent appointment, and he and Mr. Riley left about five minutes after you did. They didn’t even stay for the main course.”

  “Not surprising, is it?”

  She looked at her hands in her lap, then visibly pulled herself together and fixed Stone with a fair imitation of her usual severe expression. “I’m not sure how to respond to what you did in there, Alastair.”

  He tilted his head. “What do you mean? You wanted to do it, didn’t you?”

  “I…did, yes.”

  “But you don’t anymore?”

  “No…it’s not that. I still do. I think it will be an excellent opportunity to raise awareness of what we do. Despite your comments about ‘dog and pony shows,’ they do actually make an attempt to do solid research on the subjects they investigate.”

  “Well, then, what’s the problem?” He glanced at her aura again, noting the faint, diffuse red edges around it. That kind of red didn’t usually signal anger or (gods forbid) sexual desire, but rather more subtle emotions. “Hang on,” he said. “Edwina, I didn’t embarrass you, did I? Because I assure you, that wasn’t my—”

  “Look,” she said. “I appreciate what you did. I truly do. It was very kind of you—if a bit reckless—to take that kind of chance. If Duncan had called your bluff, we could have lost a lot of money that could be put to very good use.”

  “It wasn’t a bluff. If he’d said no, I’d have thanked him for his time and that would have been it. We’ve survived this long on the funding we’ve got. It’s not as if we’re on the chopping block anymore when the budgets are set, are we?”

  “No, of course not—though I’m surprised to find you pay any attention to things like budgets. I thought bureaucracy bored you.”

  “Frightfully. But it’s a bit hard to miss, isn’t it? Anyway—if you’re embarrassed, don’t be. I didn’t just do it for you.”

  She blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I did think it was fairly rude of him to back out on you like that. But if I’m to have to spend several days in his company, not to mention that conceited twit he’s got as a star, I want at least someone around I’ve got some respect for.” He gave her a sideways grin. “I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me, but I’ll try to stay out of your way. Believe me, I’ve no interest in hogging the limelight. I’m quite content for you to do most of the academic heavy lifting, while I sit in my hotel room with my feet up and catch up on my reading.”

  She rose, smoothing her long skirt. “You know it won’t work that way, of course.”

  “Sadly, yes. Perhaps if I play the bad boy, they’ll tire of me and realize what a gem they’ve got with you. What do you think? Should I ask for all the brown M&Ms to be removed from my candy dish? Request hot and cold running groupies waiting in my room? I am a ‘rock star,’ after all. Duncan said so himself.”

  That actually got a smile—a genuine one, albeit small and grudging. “Thank you, Alastair.”

  “I absolutely draw the line at spandex, though. Haven’t got the legs for it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Verity managed to avoid the inevitable conversation for the rest of that night. The ambulance arrived, along with a police car, only a couple minutes after she’d finished her healing job on the young accident victim. After that, it was a flurry of activity: the pair of EMTs, a man and a woman, got a quick report from Kristen about what she’d observed, then sprang into action. They contacted the hospital on the radio, assessed the boy’s condition, and set about their work with an efficiency that made the chaos of the situation seem less like chaos and more like a well-ordered drill. It wasn’t long before they’d carefully packed the boy off strapped to a gurney with his neck in a brace and roared off into the night, lights blazing and sirens wailing.

  Verity hung back, staying out of the way, surprised at how quickly all this occurred. She was spared having to talk to Kristen by one of the police officers, who came over to get their report of what had happened. The other officer was examining the downed motorcycle, taking photos and shining his flashlight along the area between the road and the tree where it had crashed.

  She answered the questions in a dull, shocked tone that wasn’t entirely affected. The magic had tired her out considerably—she’d never done a healing of that level of difficulty before, and she felt like she could eat about five hamburgers followed by curling up for at least a full day’s worth of sleep.

  “How did you even spot the wreck?” the cop asked. “He was pretty far off the road. Was the bike’s light on when you drove past?”

  Verity shook her head. “I’m not sure exactly. The bike’s pretty colorful—maybe I saw that. The light wasn’t on.”

  Kristen flashed her a look, but didn’t say anything. She’d said nothing about what Verity had done, but kept her own report to the dry facts of what they’d discovered at the scene.

  Verity was sure that was because it would be impossible for Kristen to know what she had done. From her standpoint, all she could have seen was Verity leaning over the victim’s body, running her hands around and concentrating really hard. She could just as easily have been praying, or overwhelmed with emotion.

  When the officer finished his questions, he took both their contact information and told them they were free to go. “Will we be able to find out how he’s doing?” Verity asked, nodding toward the motorcycle.

  “That’ll be up to the family,” the cop said. “You can try calling the hospital tomorrow.”

  Verity followed Kristen back up the road to her SUV. She didn’t say anything, other than offering brief directions, until they’d gotten the rest of the way up to the Hot Springs and come to a stop at the end of the dirt road leading to Edna’s place.

  “Verity—” Kristen began.

 
; “Yeah,” she said, holding up a hand. “I know. We have to talk. But not tonight. I’m dead tired, and anyway, I want Jason to be there too. Want to get together tomorrow, if you two can coordinate schedules?”

  “Yeah. Let’s do that.” She still looked shell-shocked, as if she couldn’t quite reconcile what she’d seen with what she believed about how the world worked.

  Verity got out and was preparing to shut the door when Kristen said, “I’m—not crazy, right? Something did happen back there, right?”

  “Something did happen. You’re not crazy.”

  “Good. Because…” She shook her head. “We’ll talk tomorrow. G’night.”

  Verity called the hospital the next day, but they wouldn’t reveal anything about the accident victim’s condition, even after she told them she’d been the one who’d found him.

  As she expected, Jason called a little after noon. “V, what’s going on? Kristen said you guys found a motorbike accident last night, and ‘something weird’ happened. She won’t say anything else about it, though.”

  Verity flopped back on the couch, glad Edna was still away. All she wanted to do was sleep, read, watch something mindless on TV—anything but think too hard about the conversation she’d need to have later. What had she been thinking? Why hadn’t she just lied? It wasn’t as if Kristen would have figured out the truth on her own. Oh, wow, you did magic and healed that guy! That wasn’t the kind of response your average mundane had to being in the presence of magical power.

  She remembered her skepticism when Stone had first explained to her that mundanes, by and large, wanted to pretend they believed in the supernatural—they loved their haunted houses and Tarot card readings and spooky campfire stories—but when confronted with the real thing, ninety-nine times out of a hundred their brains would immediately go to work building neat little walls of rationalization to explain it all away. Spirits were “subsonic sound waves.” Mysterious creaking noises were “the house settling.” It was just the way they thought, so they could keep their sanity nicely tethered to the ground and their worldviews firmly entrenched in a place where magic was the stuff of fairy tales and children’s games.