The Other Side: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The clerk at the Obsidian’s registration desk recognized Jason’s and Verity’s names immediately. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Mr. Nakamura has arranged a suite for you. If you’ll wait here just a moment, I’ll call someone to carry your bags up.”

  Verity looked at their luggage—one small bag each—and waved him off. “It’s okay,” she said. “We got this.”

  In the elevator up, she grinned. “A suite. Pretty posh. Of course, that’s probably because it’s the middle of the week during a dead time, but hey, I am not complaining. Beats the hell out of where we were.”

  “Even without the severed hand on the pillow,” Jason agreed. “Me, I’d have gone with a mint, but—”

  She punched his arm, then sobered. “I sure hope they find her, and she’s…well, as okay as she can be, I guess.”

  The suite wasn’t as fancy as the one they’d occupied when the three of them had been here the first time, but it was far better than anything they could have afforded on their own. It had two bedrooms, each with its own bath, and a common sitting room with a kitchenette and a small wet bar. As with every room at the Obsidian, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a spectacular view of the neon-lit Strip and the desert beyond. They’d just about finished unpacking their minimal gear when the phone buzzed.

  Verity grabbed it, hoping it was Nakamura. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Ms. Thayer.” It was indeed Harrison’s assistant. “I hope the accommodations are to your liking.”

  She punched the speaker button as Jason walked into the front room. “You could have put us up in a broom closet and we’d have been fine, Mr. Nakamura. Thanks.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ve got some information for you, if you’d like to meet me.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jason said. “Just tell us when.”

  Half an hour later, they headed back downstairs to the same bar where they’d first spoken with Nakamura earlier that evening. The place was more crowded now, but he was waiting for them at the same table in the back.

  “I’ve found some information about Mr. Ames,” he said when they were seated.

  “You did? Is he still in town?”

  “I don’t know. He seems to have disappeared. He was registered at a small hotel off the Strip called the Oasis. Apparently he kept the Do Not Disturb sign on his door the entire period of his stay, but when they entered the room on his check-out day, they found his property—clothes, toiletries, that sort of thing—but no sign of him.”

  “Wait,” Jason said. “He just left and never came back for his stuff?”

  “That’s my understanding, yes.”

  “Did they report it to the cops?”

  “Yes, but apparently it hasn’t become enough of a priority for them to send anyone out yet to investigate. Especially since no one has reported Mr. Ames missing.”

  Verity frowned and looked at Jason. “That supports our theory that he and Gary got in over their head and David bolted.” She turned back to Nakamura. “Thanks for the info—we’ll go check out the Oasis. Maybe they can tell us something if we show up in person.”

  “Ask for…” Nakamura consulted his notes. “A Mr. Chesley. He’ll be there after noon tomorrow. My sources weren’t able to get the full story, but they were led to believe that he might be willing to part with more information in person for…the proper inducements.”

  Great, more bribes. Verity hoped this Chesley didn’t have expensive tastes.

  “One more thing before we go, if that’s okay,” Jason said.

  “Of course.”

  He quickly explained how their day had gone, up to and including the discovery of the stripper’s severed hand in their hotel room and their chat with the Forgotten man downtown. “That’s why we took you up on your offer for a place to stay. If there’s anything you can tell us about these guys who are supposedly running some kind of “anything can happen” operation and maybe connected with magic, we’d really appreciate it.”

  “I hate to bring it up,” Verity said, “but earlier tonight I saw Mr. Harrison. I know he’s here. I also know he keeps tabs on magical stuff going on in town. Do you think maybe you could ask him about it, if he doesn’t want to talk to us again?”

  Nakamura’s smooth expression clouded. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Ms. Thayer. Yes, he was here earlier—but only briefly. He doesn’t spend much time here these days, so you were lucky to catch him.”

  “You can’t call him? Leave him a message or something?” Jason asked. “This sounds like the kind of thing he’d want to know about.”

  “I can,” Nakamura said, looking like he wished he could give them a better answer. “but I can’t guarantee he will see it any time soon. I’m not at liberty to say anything else about it, but he is—out of communication.”

  That pretty much clinched Verity’s suspicion that Harrison was off somewhere on another plane, but once again she didn’t see any point in annoying Nakamura by revealing it. “Okay, fine,” she said. “But if you could find anything out yourself, we’d appreciate it. These guys are bad news, it sounds like. And they must be running pretty far under the radar if you managed to miss them.”

  “I will check,” Nakamura promised. “But you’re not necessarily correct. While I do have access to a certain subset of Mr. Harrison’s sources, I don’t have his resources—or his abilities.”

  “So you don’t run down the magic baddies,” Jason said. “That makes sense. But anything you can find will be a help. Meanwhile, we’ll go talk to this Mr. Chesney at the Oasis and see if we can get anything from him.”

  Absent anything else definitive they could do that night, they decided to head back up to the room to finish writing up their notes on the case—Jason handling the version they’d reveal to Fran and Gary Woods’s wife, and Verity adding the other bits, which she planned to share with Stone when they got back.

  “I wonder how Dr. Stone’s doing up in the sticks shooting his TV show,” Verity said, taking a break to gaze out the window at the desert.

  “Probably better than we are,” Jason said. He’d finished up his notes and was now taking apart his gun to give it a quick cleaning.

  “Yeah…” She’d often wondered if there would ever be a day when magic would be out in the open, and how mundanes would deal with knowing there were people in the world who could throw lightning bolts from their hands, lift items with their minds, and track people who didn’t want to be found. She hoped not—she was a cynic and a realist like Stone, and had seen firsthand what frightened people did with things they didn’t understand. There were a lot more mundanes than mages out there, and even many of the mages weren’t equipped to deal with a determined group of mundanes coming after them. Magical power ran a spectrum from minor talents with one or two specialized abilities to people like Stone and Harrison, who were powerful and versatile enough that even if they couldn’t do something, they could often, given time, work out how to make it happen—but motivated and scared mundanes had a lot on their side too. She didn’t think it would end well, all things considered.

  Her mind inevitably drifted back to what had happened with Kristen, and the young motorcycle accident victim. What would have happened if Kristen had believed her? What if it got out to the general public that there were people in the world who could heal others with the power of their minds? What if there was so much evidence that the majority of mundanes had to believe it? Hell, even somebody like Stone, with his rudimentary skills in that area, would suddenly be in demand. Even if the mundane community didn’t find a way to force mages who could heal to do it, the guilt would be crippling. How could you let this little girl die when you have the means to save her?

  It didn’t just end with that, either. What would the government, or the military, do if they knew about magic? Would they kidnap mages and d
issect them to see what made their powers work? Would they try to figure out a way to reverse-engineer them, so they could give powers to mundanes? Even if that wasn’t possible (and Verity didn’t think it was), that wouldn’t stop them from trying. Would they insist that all mages register themselves, like you had to do with guns in some states, listing their abilities and submitting to tests to determine their power levels? Would they be watched constantly? Would every unsolved crime bring suspicion on whatever mages were nearby at the time?

  She shuddered. Scary thoughts. More scary when you considered the fact that the magical community was notoriously scattered and disorganized. According to Stone, there was no such thing as any sort of governing or even overseeing body for mages—no police to track down and punish magical crime, or council-like organization to keep tabs on the magically talented around the world. He’d told her that the community was pretty good at dealing with serious transgressors, but by and large most mages were secretive by nature and didn’t feel compelled to get involved in each other’s business unless somebody was directly threatening them or their interests. Stone was one of the few mages she (or even he) knew of who made an effort to deal with magical threats on an ongoing basis.

  “You look like you’re deep in thought,” Jason said. He’d finished cleaning the gun—it hadn’t needed much, so it only took a short time—and had put it back in its case, but didn’t lock it.

  She shrugged. “Just thinking about how it’s weird that mages don’t have any kind of organization to keep them from getting into trouble.”

  “They don’t?” He looked surprised.

  “Not that I know of—or Dr. Stone, either, and I suppose he’d know if there were.” She shook her head. “Just seems wrong to me. There’s no real rhyme or reason to who gets magical power—it’s hereditary, and sometimes it skips generations, but it doesn’t have anything to do with intelligence, or upbringing, or anything. I mean, it’s not likely it would happen, but it’s possible that somebody pretty stupid and nasty could discover they have magic, and cause a lot of trouble before somebody takes ’em down.”

  “Hadn’t really thought about that,” Jason said. “You have a point, though.”

  She shrugged. “I dunno. I’m just tired, I guess. But that stuff with the motorcycle accident started me thinking about what might happen if somebody like the mundane government found out people could heal. Or about magic at all.”

  “Maybe they already know.” Jason gathered up his notes and stuffed them back into his bag.

  She blinked. “Already know?”

  “Maybe. I’ve seen you reading those trashy books about shadowy government agencies. Maybe they already know about magic and are keeping tabs on it.”

  “Then how come Dr. Stone never said anything about it? I mean, it makes sense I wouldn’t know. Edna doesn’t care about stuff like that, and I’ve kind of been out of the loop for a while. But the Doc keeps up with what’s going on in the magical world.”

  “Hey, don’t write us mundanes off, V,” Jason said, getting up. “There are a lot more of us than there are of you, and a lot of smart folks. Maybe they’re just good at keeping it on the down-low so the mages—or at least most of ’em—don’t find out. Hell, maybe they’ve got mages on the payroll.”

  Verity almost snorted—the thought of a mage in a government-issue suit and shades, carrying a briefcase, seemed absurd—but she didn’t. Mages came in all types, after all. Maybe there were government mages. She made a mental note to ask Stone about it when she got back. “Anyway, I’m pretty beat—it was a long drive today, and a lot happened. Unless you have any other ideas for tonight, I think I’m gonna head to bed.”

  “Yeah, good idea. Night, V.”

  She gathered her own notes and drifted back toward her bedroom, mind still whirling with all the sudden, uncomfortable thoughts she’d stirred up. No time for that now—they had a case to solve. Maybe tomorrow they’d finally locate the mysterious David Ames. She hoped he had some answers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  By the time Stone got back to the compound and let the cheerful makeup lady touch him up (“Did you even eat lunch, sweetie? Everything looks just fine”), a steady rain was falling. He grabbed one of the umbrellas from a stand next to the RV’s door and hurried over to the Brunder house.

  Cody Huff and Celina Wanderley waited in the parlor where the interviews had been held earlier that morning. Both were dressed as Stone had seen them on the episodes he’d watched previously: Huff in a polo shirt and cargo shorts, Celina in jeans and a T-shirt. A pair of multi-pocketed vests lay on a table in the middle of the room next to an array of handheld electronic devices, flashlights, headphones, and other ghost-hunting gear. As usual, Riley wasn’t present.

  “Hey,” Huff said, waving. “You ready to get your ghost on?”

  “I suppose I am.” He nodded toward the table. “I don’t have to wear one of those things, do I?”

  “No,” Celina said, chuckling. “Larry loves that coat of yours. Thinks it looks spooky. All you have to do is follow Bryce and Cody and me around and react to anything we end up hearing.”

  “If we hear anything at all,” Huff said. “Sometimes the shoots are a bust.”

  “So you don’t sort of—help things along, if you don’t get anything useful?” Stone had wondered about that. It would be easy enough to have a stagehand hiding off-camera to drop something on the floor, or use various means to add a few creepy sounds to the usual floor creaks and settling timbers. Hell, if Duncan set it up so the stars didn’t know it was coming, it might evince a few appropriate expressions of shock or fear.

  To his surprise, Huff and Celina both shook their heads instantly. “No funny business,” Huff said. “That’s a hard-and-fast rule. Larry wants reality. It’s hard enough to sell this kind of thing without some freelancer we hire to schlep cords around to spill the beans about our fake operation. No, everything you see on the show really happened.”

  “Now, whether it’s ghosts or just the house shifting around getting comfortable, that’s another story,” Celina added. “But it’s all the real deal.”

  Larry Duncan breezed in, followed by Kelly Petrucci. “Okay, everybody, grab your gear and let’s get started!”

  “Where’s Bryce?” Huff asked as he and Celina picked up their vests and started shrugging into them with the help of a pair of young assistants.

  “He’s comin’—getting his ’do fixed again.”

  “He’s been bitching about the rain all morning,” Huff muttered to Stone. “Says it makes his hair wilt.”

  Stone nodded and took that opportunity to check out everybody’s aura. Not surprisingly, the weird red mist he’d spotted outside was present here as well—he couldn’t tell if it was stronger, as it might just be that the dimness in here made it show up better. Duncan’s orange aura still showed signs of stress, perhaps more so than before. That might just be due to the shoot and his personality, though. The man definitely seemed to want to be everywhere at once, and didn’t appear to have an “off” setting. Celina’s blue-purple aura and Huff’s green one looked unremarkable. Petrucci’s looked stressed, but not as much as Duncan’s.

  “Okay,” Petrucci said. “We’ll start by having you all come in the front door. Stay on the porch so you don’t get wet. We’ve got the main camera set up inside the door to get your entrance, and a few remote ones set up around the lower floor. We’ll have Nick follow you around with the handheld. No fixed path, just follow Bryce’s lead.”

  “Doc,” Duncan said to Stone, “I know this is new to you—just do whatever feels right. If you want to say something, go ahead and say it. If you can drop any interesting tidbits about the house’s history, go for it, but keep it brief. We want to be able to pick up any noises. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Stone said.

  “And remember who the st
ar of this thing is,” drawled a voice from the doorway.

  Bryce Riley had appeared. He stood framed there for a moment, wearing a brown bomber jacket over his jeans and half-unbuttoned shirt, and glared at Stone. “Got that too? Just follow along and be a good little wonk, okay?”

  “Jesus, Bryce, give it a rest,” Huff said in disgust. “You afraid the Doc’s gonna upstage you or something?”

  “Nobody fucking asked you,” Riley snapped.

  “Calm down, calm down, everybody,” Duncan said, stepping between them and putting a hand on Riley’s shoulder. “Bryce, baby, it’s okay. Everything’s fine. You’re the star—we all know that. Just get out there and do your thing, okay? Time and daylight’s wasting, and we got a lot to do before tonight.”

  Riley grumbled something under his breath, but subsided. “My hair still okay? That fucking rain—I look like a damn drowned cat.”

  “You’re fine,” Petrucci said. “You look great. Come on, everybody. Get in position and let’s go.”

  Stone fell into place at the back of the group with a sigh. He’d been on television before, but only as part of academic panels or as the subject of brief interviews about some aspect of the supernatural. This kind of thing was new to him, and he’d had no idea it would be this frustrating. They filmed take after take over the next hour, with Petrucci calling “Cut!” every time Riley forgot himself and bitched about his hair or made a point to talk over something Stone said, someone in the group took a turn into the wrong room, or a piece of equipment didn’t perform as expected. By the end of the hour, tempers were so frazzled that Duncan had to step in.

  “Okay, everybody, take ten and get yourselves back together,” he called. “Come on, people, you’re better than this. Celina, where are you? You’re supposed to be making with the psychic bullshit, remember?”