Chapter 42 #21
The room didn’t have much in it beyond a square table that held a lot of little square pieces of wood.
Did the Arcana play Scrabble? Or was this a similar game specific to Wyrd?
She wished she felt brave enough to approach the table and look, but Frost hadn’t invited her to explore, and she was on shaky ground with him.
In the next room, there were two large cages. The crow resting on a perch looked at her, cawed what sounded like a warning, hopped into one of the cages, and pulled the door closed.
The brownish bird in the other cage carefully shuffled along a low perch to put as much distance as possible between herself and the humans.
“This is Rahele,” Frost said. “She is a lark.”
“The herald of the morn,” Beth said.
Lucas gave her a quizzical look.
Beth shrugged. “A line from Romeo and Juliet, a play by William Shakespeare. The lark is a songbird.”
Now there was a dash of amusement in that look. “This play. It’s well-known?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. That could explain much.” Frost studied the lark. “She was wounded but is healing well. In a couple more days, she’ll relearn how to fly and be able to explore some of the park.” He looked at Beth in a way that captured all her attention. ‘Rahele’ means ‘traveler.’ ”
A message. Telling her what? To stop worrying, stop probing, because the answer…
Beth looked at the lark and felt awed—and chilled. If she understood him correctly, what he had told her was literally correct. Rachel Nightingale had visited Wyrd and now was gone. And Rahele, the traveler…
“It’s a beautiful park,” Beth said. “I’m sure Rahele will enjoy living here.”
“We hope so.”
She started to look toward the other cage, but stopped herself. If one had been human, could the other…?
“Anything else?” Frost asked.
So many anythings, but she shook her head. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Frost.”
“I’ll escort you to the dock.”
“Is there time to stop at one of the food stands before the next ferry arrives?” She wasn’t sure if it was true hunger or anxiety, but she really wanted something to eat.
“There’s time.”
They walked out of his office, then around to the pavilion’s entrance.
“Not a lot of business today,” Beth said, noting all the seers who were waiting for customers.
“It’s still early,” Frost replied. “And you’ll notice that the food stands are the ones doing a brisk business now.”
Yes, there were plenty of people standing in lines for food and drink.
“That boy who caught your interest,” Frost said. “Why him among the missing?”
Beth hesitated, but Frost had asked, and once she boarded the ferry, she would never ask about the boy again. “His eyes looked old and haunted. I just wanted to help him find a happy ending.”
“If he were found, death would be his ending.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You forget where you are, Detective. And you are not the only one who paid attention to his eyes.” Frost lifted his chin. “If you want something to eat, you should get in line.”
He walked away.
Beth bought a steak and cheese sandwich and a mug of hot chocolate. She sat at the end of a picnic table and listened to several women making cheerful plans to have their palms read and their astrological charts done.
The more playful side of Wyrd. But the other side…
The nightingale had flown away, leaving behind a lark, a songbird, a herald of the morn.
She had seen a glimpse of the other side of Wyrd.
Now she just had to figure out what she could safely tell Captain Forrester without getting herself banned from this place.
41
Detective Markus Seibert waited by the security desk and wondered how long Martin Chandler, the head of security for Alistair Hampton, would keep him waiting.
Not long, apparently.
The elevator doors opened. Hampton and Chandler strode toward the desk, Hampton one step ahead of his employee.
“You have news about my fiancée?” Hampton demanded.
“No, sir,” Markus replied. “I’m here on another matter. Do you employ a man by the name of Jeremy Swayne?”
“He works in security,” Chandler replied.
“Do you have any information about his next of kin?”
Chandler stared at him. “Why do you need to know that?”
A head of security should know exactly why a cop was asking, but Markus replied as if such a notification had never happened before. “I regret to inform you that Jeremy Swayne was killed. Some personal items were found near the river, along with a blood trail leading to the water.”
“That’s nonsense!” Hampton shouted. “An acquaintance saw Swayne boarding the river bus. There must be a mistake.”
“There’s no mistake. We identified remains through fingerprints that were on file.” Markus took a small notebook and pen out of his pocket. “Has Swayne reported to work or contacted you since that sighting?”
“No,” Chandler said, glancing at Hampton. “We haven’t heard from him.”
Markus nodded. “Which acquaintance saw him? And where? That could give us more information about where he died.”
“Are you sure he’s dead?” Chandler said.
“Not one hundred percent sure, no. However, his hands were secured to a piece of driftwood. They were retrieved by a patrol boat that was traveling through Susurration Sound. Considering the depth of the sound, it’s unlikely that we’ll find the rest of him.”
“What about the women who were with Rachel Nightingale?” Chandler asked. “Do you have any information about them?”
“We’ve identified three out of the four women who allegedly were with Rachel Nightingale that morning,” Markus said.
“Allegedly?” Hampton’s face turned red with fury. “Allegedly? They were seen.”
“Women with similar looks were seen,” Markus countered.
“Women who might have had a reason to impersonate individuals who had been dead for several days. The bodies were found at the Jackson marina that same morning, so the women we identified couldn’t have been the ones who entered the apartment with Rachel Nightingale. ”
Hampton swore savagely. “It’s that damn island. It has to be. We should bomb the whole fucking place and be done with it.”
A classmate of Markus’s had said the same thing once during a class at the academy years ago.
The instructor had smiled and said, “The Hydra was a monster with many heads, and it had the ability to grow a new one if a head was cut off. The places that are a convergence of the uncanny are like the Hydra—you might think you can destroy one of them, but the uncanny just retreats and emerges somewhere else, and those places and what lives there are very dangerous when attacked. You can’t kill the uncanny, gentlemen; you can only make it angry.
And if it is angry, it will come after you—and the strange will absorb your life. ”
Markus looked at Chandler. “Swayne’s next of kin?”
Chandler met his look, then nodded. “I’ll get it for you.”
“If Swayne is gone, that’s regrettable,” Hampton said when Chandler left to fetch the information. “But you damn well better put more effort into finding Rachel before you come back here asking for her next of kin.”
Hampton stormed out of the building.
When Chandler returned, Markus thanked him for the information and turned to leave.
“You don’t think you’ll find her, do you?” Chandler asked.
Markus considered the question—and wondered if the Penwych detective going to Wyrd this morning would have an answer. For now, he said, “Until there is a body, there is always hope.”
He walked out of the building. As he told Hampton and Chandler, three of the women who were with Rachel Nightingale that morning had been identified. The fourth woman was still a mystery.
He thought it was safer for all of them if she remained that way.
42
Charles Forrester studied Beth Fahey’s pale face and asked the question that would have the most impact on his team. “Were you banned from going back to Wyrd?”
She looked startled—and scared.
“You wouldn’t be the first, but if that’s what happened, you’ll need to put in a request to transfer to another team, either in Penwych or another town.
I need people who can cross the river, Detective.
Last year, there were four detectives on the team, but one man transferred to another precinct after an incident on the island.
The other man is still on medical leave because he saw something that scared him so much, he hid under his desk for three days, crying.
Even if he comes back to work, he’ll never come back to the team.
So I need to know if you no longer have the ability to cross the river. ”
“I wasn’t banned,” Fahey said. “But I was warned, and I’m forbidden to ask questions about some things.”
“You pushed too hard.” Charles let some of his frustration and anger show. “I warned you.”
“Yes, sir.” Fahey looked at the floor.
“Are you allowed to tell me what Lucas Frost said about Rachel Nightingale?”
She frowned and seemed to be sorting what she knew before deciding what she could say. “Rachel Nightingale had gone to Wyrd, and she did give her phone’s PIN to Mr. Frost. She is gone now and not expected to return.”
Charles blew out a breath. “I suppose we should inform her next of kin that she is officially considered missing.”
“Mr. Frost.” Fahey cleared her throat. “Mr. Frost said that those who truly care about her already know they don’t have to worry about her.”
Charles parsed that statement. Rachel Nightingale had disappeared by choice, and the people who mattered to her had been informed of her decision.
They probably didn’t know where she was or how to contact her directly—a man like Alistair Hampton could twist that information out of them—but someone would have the authority to handle Nightingale’s intellectual property and the royalties generated from it.
He’d bet a month’s pay that whoever it was, that someone lived on the Isle of Wyrd.
“Did you ask about the other women? Is that why you were warned off?”
Fahey shook her head. “I didn’t ask about them, but…” She withdrew a folded sheet of paper from her purse, opened it, and held it out. “I asked about him. That’s when Mr. Frost became seriously angry.”
With good reason. “Did you read the whole file before you made that inquiry?” Charles asked. “Did you pay attention to the medical part of that file?”
Stan Wozniak had sat in this office a few months ago and wrestled with a question—and wondered if he could live with the answer as a father, a cop, and a man.
“Clumsy? That kid isn’t clumsy, Charles. Look at his medical file. Look at those burns!”
“Stan? Are you just venting, or are you asking for a favor?”
“If the kid is on this side of the river, I have to try to find him before he becomes another statistic. But if he got across the river, if he’s somewhere…safe…or as close to safe as you can get, I’ll go through the motions of looking for him.”
Stan Wozniak was a good man and as solid and practical as they came. He had crossed the river once a few years ago—and he barely made it out of the pavilion before something unnerved him so badly he turned around and stayed at the dock until the ferry loaded for the return trip.
As a favor to Stan, Charles had crossed the river and asked the question about the boy.
“We don’t need to find him if he’s safe,” he’d said.
And Lucas Frost had replied, “He’s safe.”
Charles stared at his young detective. The Arcana had taken an interest in her, had told her too much on her first visit to Wyrd. He didn’t want to lose her, so he hoped she would understand the seriousness of Frost’s warning. “Did you read the boy’s medical file?”
“No, sir.”
“I did. So did Captain Wozniak. That’s why we know he’s better off wherever he is. Do you understand?”
She hesitated before nodding.
“Write up your report with the information provided about Rachel Nightingale. Don’t mention the boy.”
Another hesitation. “I might know more about Ms. Nightingale, but I don’t think I’m allowed to tell anyone.”
“Then leave speculation out of the report.” Now he hesitated, but it had to be said. “If your actions bring harm to someone under the Arcana’s protection, they will come after you.”
She turned away from his desk, then stopped. Not looking at him, she asked, “Do you ever get scared when you cross the river?”
“Every time,” he replied. Then he added silently, But I make the trip because I can, and there are many good cops who can’t.
When Fahey left his office and closed the door, Charles sat back and rubbed his hands over his face.
He’d promised Colin that they would go to Wyrd and have a look around soon.
One problem with taking a teenager on that ferry right now was Darren Palmer’s father doing everything he could to stir up the people in Penwych—demanding that the ferry be shut down; demanding that the people running the ferry refuse passage to anyone under eighteen; demanding that the Penwych police create a barricade and turn away anyone underage who was trying to get on the ferry; demanding compensation for the death of his son.
Demanding, demanding, demanding at any public forum, pushing his way in front of news cameras, trying to stir up a mob mentality.
So far, Edwena Bang, the mayor of Penwych, had held firm in her responses to Palmer’s demands.
The ferry was privately owned, as were the land and pier.
Government officials couldn’t shut it down.
While the people running the ferry could refuse to provide passage to anyone, they were not obliged to turn away someone because of that person’s age.
Finally pushed too far when she was leaving her office, Mayor Bang looked at Palmer and the news reporters surrounding him and said that parents were responsible for supervising their own children and shouldn’t blame others if childish rebellions ended in tragedy.
That statement probably would cost her some votes in the next election, but it also probably saved the town from a hellish response.
That sailing ship might be a ghost ship, but the cannonballs fired from the guns were real enough when they hit anything on this side of the river.
Maybe he shouldn’t have brought Darren Palmer’s remains back across the river—especially in the shape they were in.
Maybe he should have let people think that Ted Ocampo had killed a bully and then made up the bizarre story about a rat-faced chicken to explain returning alone—or to set himself up with an insanity plea when the body was found.
Ted didn’t deserve to be labeled crazy, and Darren Palmer’s family deserved the closure of having something to bury, even if there wasn’t much left to the boy.
Don’t stir up the Arcana, Mr. Palmer, Charles thought. Just grieve for your boy and stop drawing attention to yourself. That kind of attention will only bring harm to everything it touches. It always does.