Fantastic Detectives Page 15

  A name from the Old Country.

  A name Joseph was all too familiar with.

  The Arlie clan, back in the days of the Celts, performed a great service in battle to King Brian of the fey. As a reward Brian promised them and their posterity the services of baen sidhe. The singers of the faery mound, to accompany their entrance into the world of spirits.

  Without a banshee to sing their passing, the souls of the Arlie were doomed to remain here. Not dead, but not alive.

  A zombie.

  Burning the creature was also out of the question, then. A spirit without a welcoming home... they’d be dealing with the poltergeist for decades.

  “It’s an easy enough solution,” said Sandusky. “Just help us summon the banshee responsible for the Mac Crareys and we’re good as toast.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  Sandusky raised an eyebrow and bounced up on his toes. “Dr. Nelson. Surely you, the recognized expert in these matters, know which banshee King Brian assigned to the Mac Crarey family.”

  Joseph couldn’t keep the fear or the anger out of his voice. “Of course I do,” he snapped. “It’s Maeve. My ex-wife.”

  ***

  The tight-fitting headset did little to quiet the constant tha-tha-tha-tha-tha of the chopper rotors. Joseph felt the little queasy knot in his stomach jump a bit and knew they were descending even before the pilot’s voice came through the headset to tell him so.

  He wrinkled his nose against the faint smell of exhaust from the chopper engine as he tapped the smooth screen of his smart-phone, broadcasting a message to every researcher and spell caster he knew.

  Message sent with High Importance!

  Am in need of a vocal migration spell. Urgent.

  Respond to this address ASAP

  Normally Joseph was loathe to distribute his personal email address like this, but so many spells needed darkness to work properly.

  And it was now 4 AM.

  By tonight it might be too late for everyone in the city below.

  During the year after Charlie’s death Maeve became despondent. He’d fallen for her because she’d always been so happy, so full of life. Even when carrying out her duties from King Brian, when she knew her song meant the loss of a soul from this life, Maeve remained upbeat. How often had he heard her say, “Ya always march on, so ye might as well have a lively step as ya go”?

  Everything changed when she had to sing her own child to sleep one final time.

  To the best of Joseph’s knowledge she hadn’t spoken a word since.

  He chewed on his lip. Eight years since Charlie’s disappearance. 5 years since the divorce. Occasional visits, the last a year ago. He hoped things got better since then.

  ***

  The chopper made a pillow-soft landing on the well-lit helipad atop O’Bannion Towers, the tallest building in the city.

  The down-draft from the slowing rotors tossed Joseph’s hair willy-nilly and dried the sweat on his scalp and back of his neck almost instantly. He hadn’t realized he’d been so hot. Joseph unzipped the front of his jacket as he jogged the distance to the glass doors leading to the penthouse suite.

  Roger O’Bannion was mortal, like Joseph, but was wealthy enough, well educated in the Old Ways enough, to be accepted by the fey. Though only in his 40s, Roger was the most recent husband of Queen Mab and so, despite less than a dozen years difference in their ages, that made Joseph Roger’s... what? Ex-son-in-law.

  Joseph liked Roger immensely. Under other circumstances he thought they’d have become great friends.

  Under these circumstances....

  Joseph slowed to catch his breath as he neared the penthouse doors. The cool air had a touch of moisture in it.

  Joseph ran his fingers through his hair, doing his best to get his hair back in place. What on earth could he possibly say?

  A great gray mass ten feet across and twice as tall landed in front of him with enough force to shake the rooftop. A deep rumble like the sound of a landslide boomed out of the bulky thing.

  “State your business.”

  Joseph stepped back involuntarily. It took a moment before he recognized the great wings, the granite-sharpened claws, the broken tusks, and most of all, the stormy voice of Lothario, O’Bannion’s manservant. A gargoyle.

  “Lothario, it’s me. Joseph Nelson.”

  The landslide sounded forth. “Master Nelson. It’s so good to see you again. How long’s it been, eh? A year? No more than that I’ll wager.”

  “About a year exactly. Your memory serves you well.” And then, because he had no time for the idle chit-chat that had marked their conversations before, Joseph hastily added, “I must see Maeve. It can’t wait.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir. Not at all. The mistress, she’s not well. Not well at all. Things have got worse since you were last here, pardon my saying so.”

  Joseph’s heart sank. His tongue felt thick. If only she’d been better. “Mr. O’Bannion, then. Please tell him Maeve’s neglected a summons from the mound. We have—” he checked his watch “—fourteen hours at most before the city’s awash in the undead.”

  It was 5:28. Perhaps two hours until the winter sun rose in the east. Not nearly long enough.

  A small granite bird took to flight from Lothario’s shoulder. It gave a squawk as it turned and flew through the open door of the penthouse suite.

  “It’s been done, sir. Even as you said. Now why don’t you come on inside out of the cold? I’ll fix you a nice cuppa while you wait.”

  Joseph’s phone chimed. The short, sharp tone informing him an email had arrived.

  The spell. Yes. An easy spell, but it would be far more difficult in the daylight.

  He dialed the warden’s number. As the phone rang he looked to the gargoyle.

  “Lothario, old friend. I need your help.” He gestured to the lights of the city below, to the tower of St. Christopher’s where the 5:30 bells were about to chime. “They all need your help. And you’re the only person capable of doing it.”

  If it were possible for a hunk of rock to look surprised, Lothario did it.

  “Sandusky. It’s Joseph. I don’t care how you do it, but we need to make ‘Little’ ready for transport—by airmail.”

  ***

  Roger’s continual pacing made Joseph nervous. “I get it Joseph. I do. But here? For Pete’s sake, we’ll all be in quarantine until the virus is so entrenched there’s no way out for any of us.” Despite his family’s Irish heritage, the O’Bannions had lived in the States for several generations, giving Roger a carefully neutral dialect.

  Roger stuck one thumb into the belt loop of his Levi’s. With his other hand he drummed his fingers against the granite countertop of his impressive kitchen, the incessant ta-ta-ta-tap was almost worse than his pacing.

  Joseph moistened his lips and rubbed his face with his hand. “There’s no time for anything else,” Joseph said. “If Maeve won’t sing—”

  “And she won’t.”

  Joseph looked blankly around the penthouse. Everything so grand, so magnificent. The kitchen before him. The great room behind. And right now he couldn’t even begin to take any of it in.

  “How do you know?” he said. “I mean, despite everything she’s still Maeve, right? Deep down? If we explain—”

  “I’m the one trying to explain,” said Roger. “And you’re not listening.” Roger folded his arms. A few times it looked like he was trying to speak, but couldn’t find the right words to say.

  Somewhere a grandfather clock ticked off the passing seconds.

  Finally Roger said, “She won’t sing because it’s Leroy Star. She ignored the summons. Intentionally”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Roger sighed in exasperation. Joseph caught a whiff of cinnamon on Roger’s breath. “No. I guess you don’t.” He motioned for Joseph to follow and led the way into one of the main hallways leading from the great room of the penthouse. “Okay, sport. Brace yo
urself. ‘Cause this won’t be pretty.”

  The hallway became a walkway with glass railings. Below them selkies in seal form barked and mermaids splashed in a swimming pool as wide as the building itself. Instead of chlorine the pool smelled of the sea.

  The walkway ended and another hallway began. The pictures on the walls showed lush green countrysides and great cliffs dropping off into a wild sea.

  The Old Country.

  “Roger, I know the myths and legends, but you’ve been in the family for how long now?”

  “About twenty years.”

  “What do you know about the Mac Crareys?”

  “Old, old family. Dates back to King Brian himself. I believe they were one of three families Brian allowed into and out of the fairy mound at will. Over time there was probably a fair amount of blarney exchanged between the fey and the Mac Crareys, if you catch my drift.”

  They went around a corner and arrived at a door, closed with a stretch of “Keep Out. This Means You” tape cutting diagonally across its width. “Here we are.”

  Roger paused with his hand on the doorknob.

  “Maeve’s?” Joseph asked.

  Roger nodded and pushed the door open.

  Pink walls. Fresh cut flowers in two large vases on tables at both the near and far side of the room. A twin four-poster bed with a quilt tied in gaelic knot patterns.

  A TV opposite the bed showing the newscast of the protesters outside the prison.

  But overshadowing all of this.... Posters. Large and small. Color and black and white. On the walls and up the sloped ceiling. Each of them with the hideous pointy-toothed grin of that bald-headed idiot Leroy “Little” Star.

  “It’s like she’s a teenager all over again,” Joseph said. Crushing on the jerk who’ll just take advantage of her.

  “That’s exactly what it’s like,” said Roger. He plucked a small book—a diary?—from the nearest table next to the vase of flowers and held it out to Joseph.

  “No. I couldn’t.”

  Roger shrugged, flipped it open at random, and began reading aloud.

  My Dearest Leroy,

  I dreamt of you again last night. We walked together hand-in-hand on a moonlit beach—

  “Enough.” A lump formed in Joseph’s throat. He fought against the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.

  Five years they’d been together. Four years of shared sacrifice. Of love greater than anything he’d believed possible. One year of pain greater than anyone should ever endure.

  She could ignore him. Refuse to see him ever again. Refuse to speak, to use her magnificent voice—especially after the summons came for Maeve to sing her own son’s passing to the next life. Joseph could understand all of that.

  This? This he couldn’t understand at all.

  A small cement bird squawked in the hallway behind them as it flew past.

  “Ah,” said Roger. “Good. She’s here.”

  “She has to sing,” Joseph said. “And if you’ll help me, I think I know how.”

  ***

  Joseph shivered in the cool night air, zipping his bomber jacket tightly around him. He pushed his face down into its upturned collar. He’d owned the jacket for years. It had been a gift from Maeve, actually, at their last anniversary before Charlie went missing. Before everything went south.

  If he closed his eyes he could still smell her, her scent subtly entwined with the fading smell of the leather.

  During the time he’d been in the penthouse, the sky overhead lightened from black to a dull blue-gray. He hoped Lothario was already well on the way. It would not be good at all for the sun to rise on a gargoyle in flight carrying a patient-zero zombie over the most densely populated section of the city.

  The city below began to arise. Car horns, running engines. The first noise of a busy day.

  He stood behind one of the cement pillars stretching from floor to ceiling between the panes of glass separating the rooftop from the penthouse. With the door open slightly he could follow everything happening inside.

  Maeve had been there. At the prison. Protesting.

  He recognized the sign as she leaned it against the wall. “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” That had been her.

  “I think we did it, Da. Truly, I do. We kept waitin’ and waitin’ but word of Leroy’s death never did come.”

  Roger listened intently, cutting herbs on a wooden cutting board.

  Parsley and cloves. They were the important ones. According to the spell, parsley and cloves would loosen Maeve’s voice, allowing Joseph to take control of it just long enough to sing a few notes. Not much. But he had to hope it would be enough.

  Roger scraped the herbs together into a tea pot and poured boiling water on them. Good. Not long now.

  “You don’t think they executed him, then?”

  “How could they? A fine lad like Leroy, why I don’t believe he done any of the things they’re accusin’ him of.”

  Joseph shook his head. How could she be so blind?

  The sky overhead continued to lighten.

  Joseph pulled out his phone and thumbed open an app from the weather service with sunrise and sunset times. Took too long to load.

  Where was Lothario? Everything had to come together just right or they were hosed for sure.

  Roger poured some tea into a small cup. Handed it to Maeve. “I’m glad you think so, honey.”

  The cement beneath Joseph’s feet shook and rumbled as Lothario landed, Leroy Star held fast in a bear hug between the gargoyle’s massive arms.

  Joseph checked the app. Sunrise in five minutes. “Cutting it kind of close there Big Guy.”

  “I did the best I could.”

  “Just make sure he doesn’t get away from you.”

  Joseph hoped beyond hope Roger had done his part, that Maeve had at least tasted the parsley and cloves. He hoped whatever she’d had would be enough. He flipped his phone back over to the email app with the vocal migration spell.

  He swung open the glass door and yelled, “Hey Maeve. We’ve got Leroy Star right here. Come up and say hello.”

  The look of joy on her face hit Joseph like a sucker punch to the gut. How could she love this... this thing? Even before Leroy became a zombie he’d been a jerk. A womanizer. A murderer.

  And she ran to him as if he were a lover returning home after an extended absence.

  Joseph let the shock and anger he felt fuel his actions. It had to be quick. It had to be now.

  He grabbed her as she ran past and fell with her to the ground. Gripping her throat with one hand, he held the phone in the other and—

  And Maeve screamed. A high pitched squeal that rose in pitch and in volume.

  The windows surrounding the penthouse shattered. The mirror in the great room shattered. The glassware in the kitchen. The windows in the apartments and offices three floors down and in the surrounding buildings.

  Glass flew everywhere.

  He let his phone drop from his hand before the glass cut his hand to shreds and covered his head with both arms to protect himself from the flying shards that pelted his jacket like hail in a snow storm.

  Moments later the scream stopped, but the damage was done. His phone no longer had a screen—just an open cavity revealing the circuitry inside.

  His ears rang but he heard the chaos and confusion of the city as the shards of glass rained down upon the street below. At least he wasn’t deaf.

  Maeve laughed.

  He grabbed her arms. Shook her. “What have you done?”

  “I saved him,” she said. And she pulled away from Joseph, running toward Lothario and the undead creature that was once Leroy Star.

  The sun peeked through the skyline to the East. Joseph shouted, “Lothario! Hold him fast! Don’t give him any room to escape. Don’t give her any way to get to him.”

  The gargoyle closed his wings and arms tightly around the struggling corpse. Lothario’s dark skin stiffened, hardened, and froze in place as the gargoyle again t
urned to stone.

  Joseph shaded his eyes against the glare of the morning sun.

  Their best chance to stop the zombie plague, gone.

  “I’ll make some phone calls,” said Roger. “Start the evacuation.”

  Joseph nodded. As the ringing in his ears began to fade he did his best to ignore Maeve’s sobs, her pleas to the unmoving stone to let Leroy Star go. He wanted so badly to hold her, to comfort her against the gathering storm. And perhaps, if they survived the day, he could.

  But first he had to find another solution. There had to be another way.

  And to discover it he would need wisdom beyond his own.

  He turned to Roger. “You make those phone calls and it’ll jam up the streets. Give me an hour. I need two things,” he said. “First, I need someone to take me to Chinatown. The real deal—not the tourist trap most people see.”

  “Done,” said Roger. “What’s the second thing?”

  Joseph placed his hand on Roger’s shoulder as they eased their way through the broken glass back into the penthouse. “If you wanted the juiciest, most succulent prime rib in the city—somewhere you could go and know it would always be the best steak or ribs or whatever, where would you go?”

  ***

  Despite the triple-wrap of the plastic bags around his take-out containers, the putrid odor of Joseph’s thousand-year egg cut through the rich meaty smell of Ranch on Fifth like a hot knife through butter.

  The maître d’ blocked his way to the kitchen briefly and the poor woman who sat closest to Joseph gagged in the ammonia-like smell of egg rot. “It is not permitted,” the maître d’ said.

  “Blow it out your ear,” said Joseph, pushing past him. It had taken all morning to find a genuine thousand-year egg and Joseph was running behind schedule. “I’m not here for you. I’m here for Lao Long. The dragon.”

  The kitchen bustled with noise and clatter as sous-chefs put the finishing touches on the lunch plates about to enter the dining room. The maître d’ caught him from behind. “If you are su-jhest-een our chefs are not the finest trained—”

  Joseph laughed in the poor man’s face. “Well of course Lao Long is the finest trained.” He gestured to the plate about to leave the kitchen. “You think prime rib like this can be prepared by a mere mortal?”