Summoned (16 page)

Dad scissor-rubbed his brow with a thumb and forefinger. “It’s damn clumsy. But what else could it be?”

Gus tapped his notes. “Theory Three. No killer animals. A person’s killing the pets and making it look like monster attacks. He’s tiptoeing around in his webbed shoes. He’s spreading his artificial slime. He’s dressing up in that monster suit.”

“Keep thinking for me, Gus,” Dad said.

“Three A: The hoaxer is the person calling himself Redemption Orne.”

“It has to be Orne,” Eddy said. “He’s the only one who knew Sean had the summoning ritual, so who else would put on a horror show about a Servitor?”

“And Three B: Geldman is Orne’s accomplice. He gave Sean drugs to make him hallucinate.”

Gus’s Number Three was pretty much what Eddy had come up with earlier. There was something wrong with both their versions, though Sean couldn’t put his finger on it. As for Dad, he was looking more convinced and more pissed by the minute. “I wish Sean had saved those damn powders. Now all we’ve got is the e-mail from Orne saying to buy them from Geldman.”

“Yes,” Gus said. “And Geldman could deny selling anything to Sean.”

“But the e-mail makes a connection between Orne and him. We should give it to the police. Geldman could be selling this garbage to other kids.”

What had been bothering Sean finally came clear. “No, see. Uncle Gus, Dad. Orne gave me the incantation to summon the
aether-newt,
not the blood-spawn. So why would he set up a blood-spawn hoax?”

The way Dad rolled his eyes, he didn’t get it. Gus, on the other hand, nodded. So did Eddy.

“Here’s another thing: The Reverend chats with me and Eddy once and decides to spend tons of time and money hoaxing us? Geldman takes a chance giving a kid drugs? I mean, couldn’t he lose his license or even go to jail?”

“Sean,” Dad moaned. “What’s your point?”

“His point is the big question,” Gus said. “What’s Orne’s motivation to terrorize a stranger?”

“Since when do lunatics need reasonable motivation?”

“Their motives have to make sense to them, at least.”

“Let the police figure that out.”

Dad said it like he was ready to grab the phone. But Sean couldn’t give in. “Dad, there’s a motive the police won’t think of. What if Orne’s really trying to see if I can do magic?”

“Theories Four and Five,” Gus said. “Number Four. Redemption Orne believes he’s a wizard. Geldman shares his belief, so they’re not hoaxers in the usual sense. They’re delusional, they’re creating their own reality, and they’re trying to drag Sean into it. Orne in particular, because part of his delusion is that he needs an apprentice.”

Four was better than Three, but Sean still couldn’t buy in. “Uncle Gus, you think Orne and Geldman could fake all this stuff and not know they were faking it?”

Dad scowled. “Why not, if they’re crazy enough? Besides, it doesn’t matter what kind of lunatics they are. I want them stopped.”

But it did matter was what made Orne tick. The difference between a hoax and genuine magic was huge. It was a difference as big as the whole universe and its laws. Dad didn’t understand that. Could Gus? “What about Number Five?” Sean asked.

“Five,” Gus said. “Redemption Orne is a wizard. Magic works. Somehow Sean made a mistake with his summoning, and now a monster’s loose.”

Gus’s bald statement launched a kick to Sean’s psychic gut. Eddy gawped as if she’d gotten the same kick. It was one thing for Sean to spout cracked ideas, but for Gus to do it? He wasn’t merely an adult; he was a philosophy professor and a former Navy pilot. Didn’t he have to disbelieve in cracked ideas, kind of on principle?

To hell with kicks: Dad looked like he’d taken a sledgehammer to the head. For a few seconds, he stared at Gus. Then he blew up: “Come on! This is serious.”

“I’m being serious.”

“But you’re talking fairy tales!”

Gus lifted his hand from his notes. “Not quite. The Cthulhu Mythos is as coherent a tradition as any religion. It’s had followers since humans grew brains big enough to follow anything. It’s got followers now. Orne could be one of them.”

“Not just a wannabe, an actual wizard. That’s what you’re saying?”

“That’s Theory Five.”

Sean got his psychic breath back. “Dad, I know it sucks to think about monsters, but what if it’s true? What if it’s my fault all these animals got killed? What about Joe-Jack and Beo? They helped make the river trail; now how can they ever walk it again? And I can’t even want them to, because they could get killed like Hrothgar, and it would be my fault.”

Dad gripped the edge of the counter. “Sean, the only monster is Orne, and it isn’t your fault he’s playing a rotten game with you.”

“If magic is real, it
is
my fault. It’s my Servitor. I summoned it.”

Either the counter was going to break or Dad’s knuckles were.

Quietly (cautiously?), Gus cleared his throat. “Here’s how I see it,” he said. “We’ve ruled out Theories One and Two. Three and Four, the deliberate or delusional hoaxes, the police can handle without our help. We watch the news. If they announce the slime’s synthetic, the prints are fakes, Hrothgar’s wounds were man-made, we turn our information over to them.”

“And if they don’t find a hoax?” Dad said. “Do we go to them with Theory Five?”

“I’m not sure that would help,” Gus said.

“It was a rhetorical question, Gus.”

The frustration Dad packed into that last sentence was another kick in the gut. Man, if Sean could only go back a few weeks, skip doing the ritual, no, skip going into Horrocke’s in the first place. But whatever his magical aptitude, he wasn’t powerful enough to time travel. “I don’t think regular weapons would stop it,” he told his mutilated slice of pie—he couldn’t look at Dad or Gus or even Eddy. “It’s probably like the thing Patience Orne summoned. The Puritans tried shooting it and chopping it with axes, and that didn’t even slow it down. It only went away when Patience died. They hanged her, and they heard it howling in the woods. Then they never saw it again.”

“How do you know that, Sean?” Gus asked.

“It’s in the
Witch Panic
book.”

“Speaking of which, I liberated it from your backpack last night.” Gus wrote some notes on the back of his theories sheet. “We wanted to see the ad you found. I have to admit, I’m stumped how Orne managed to make the clipping look so old. I’d love to have an expert check it over.”

“We already showed it to Mr. Horrocke,” Eddy said. “He wouldn’t say anything about it. Is that suspicious or what? I still bet he’s the Reverend.”

“That makes sense to me,” Dad said. “Sean found the ad at his store.”

It was no use arguing that Horrocke wasn’t Orne. All Sean had to go on was his memory of the old guy looking into the stacks, then up at the ceiling, as if he could spot the true culprit that way. Too bad Horrocke hadn’t wanted to talk about the clipping.
He
would have known if it was over a hundred years old. Who else would? Somebody at the MU Library?

The MU Library.

Ms. Arkwright.

Sean pushed back from the table. He risked a glance at Dad, whose face was unreadable except for the muscle spasm in his jaw.

Gus finished writing. He looked over at Dad and said, “I don’t think we have enough evidence to accuse Horrocke of playing wizard. But we could talk to him before we go to Geldman’s.”

Geldman’s? “You’re going to the pharmacy?” Sean said.

“This morning,” Dad said. “I want to know what was in the powders Geldman sold you. I want to know his friend Orne’s real name and what his game is.”

“We want you to come, too, Sean,” Gus put in. “You can tell whether Geldman’s being straight with us.”

Sean expected Eddy to ask if she could tag along, but Dad’s mood must have scared her off. All she said was, “Can I do anything here, Professor Litinski?”

“You can do a lot. Go online and research Redemption Orne, Solomon Geldman, Geldman’s Pharmacy, Servitors, familiars. A location for Orne would be great. Any forums or blogs he might be involved in. Just don’t contact Orne himself.”

“I’m all over it.”

Sean half-wished he could stay with Eddy, but at the same time he felt a queasy excitement over returning to Geldman’s Pharmacy. Once they’d seen the place, Gus and Dad would understand how Sean had gotten sucked into doing the ritual. And while they were in Arkham— “Could we go see Ms. Arkwright?”

Dad had come back to the table to fortify himself with coffee and the remains of Sean’s breakfast. “What are you talking about?”

“Ms. Arkwright. She’s an expert on old documents, right? We could show her the clipping.” But even as Dad gave him the evil eye, Sean realized how much more important Helen Arkwright could be. He turned to Gus. “Plus, she works at Miskatonic, with all the Mythos books, and Orne said we had to get the dismissing ritual out of the
Necronomicon
there.”

Around a mouthful of pie, Dad said, “Helen Arkwright doesn’t have anything to do with this.” He swallowed. “And she’s hired me for a very expensive restoration. The last thing I need is for her to think I’m a madman.”

“But she could get us in to look at the
Necronomicon,
and then we could look for the dismissing ritual.”

Eddy widened her eyes at Sean and mouthed,
Chill
. “Sean,” Gus said. “We don’t know we have anything to dismiss.”

“But the
Necronomicon—
”

“You don’t need any more crazy books,” Dad said.

“But if it turns out we
need
the
Necronomicon—
”

“Let’s play it by ear,” Gus said. “Horrocke, then Geldman, then proceed from there.”

“To the police,” Dad said. He shook his head at Sean before heading to the bathroom.

At least Theory Five was still on the list—when Gus folded his notes, Sean saw that only Numbers One and Two had been crossed off. Wizards and monsters weren’t on the top, but they were still in the game.

Dad
called his interns and told them to stay away from the studio until further notice. Termites, toxic pesticides, he said. That was a decent lie for Dad.

They were on the front porch, heading out to Arkham, when a Providence police cruiser pulled up to the curb behind Gus’s Volvo. Sean stopped on the bottom step, an instant horror movie running through his head.
The Cranston police have called Providence to arrest Sean, because back in Edgewood Mrs. Mandell is sprawled on her kitchen floor; bloody webbed prints trail up the stairs to Ethan and Zoe’s rooms; Mr. Mandell, in shock, still clutches the phone on which he’s called 911.
A cop in plain clothes got out of the cruiser, tall and buff, with carrot-red hair. When he gave the three of them a cheerful wave, Sean’s mind movie snapped. Who’d arrive to announce a massacre with a wave like that?

Shading his eyes, the cop looked over Sean’s shoulder and said, “Mr. Wyndham?”

Dad was a couple steps above Sean. He squeezed past him, and Gus took his place at Sean’s back. “I’m Jeremy Wyndham.”

The cop met Dad halfway up the brick path from sidewalk to house, badge wallet open. “Thomas O’Conaghan,” he said. “Good morning, sir.”

The badge was just a glint in the sun to Sean. Dad peered at it. “
Detective
O’Conaghan,” he said.

Detective. Sean got off the bottom step onto solid ground, only it didn’t feel all that solid. Gus followed close, like he knew he might have to catch Sean when the truth came out and he dived.

“That’s right,” O’Conaghan said, still smiling. “I’m not here on official business, though. I’m interested in the animal killings in Pawtuxet Village. I understand you and your son were at the scene of one?”

“How do you understand that, Detective?” Dad sounded put out, which couldn’t be a good way to sound around cops.

“I talked to Joseph Douglass,” O’Conaghan said. “He mentioned meeting you and Sean after he found his dog. He said Sean went to see the body and you followed.”

That was the trouble with Joe-Jack. If you got him talking, he’d spill every last detail, like a shook-up beer can spewing foam.

“Joe’s our friend,” Dad said. “Sean went to the breeder’s with him and his son when they picked out Hrothgar. It was a shock to Sean, how the dog was killed.”

“I’m sure it was, sir. Is that Sean?”

Dad looked around, as if he weren’t sure. “Yes. And my brother-in-law, Gus Litinski. We’re getting ready to go on a trip.”

Like,
leave us the hell alone.
Again, O’Conaghan wasn’t fazed. He walked right up to Sean and Gus. “Professor Litinski, is it?” he said.

“That’s me, Detective.”

“Mr. Douglass said Sean might be at your house.”

“Yes, he often stays here.”

O’Conaghan turned to Sean. He’d lost the smile, and his eyes, bright blue ones, were serious. “I’m sorry you had to see Hrothgar.”

“Yeah.” Surprise, Sean didn’t croak. “He was kind of my dog, too. He always rode with us in the van and hung out while we were working. He was cool.”

“I believe you,” O’Conaghan said.

“Look.” That was Dad, coming up, more put out than before. “I don’t get what you’re doing here, Detective. The animal killings must come under the Cranston and Warwick jurisdictions.”

“As I said, I’m not here in any official capacity. It’s a strange case. I’m curious about it.”

“I don’t think your curiosity’s appropriate. Sean’s been upset enough. Besides, we don’t know anything more than we’ve read in the paper.”

O’Conaghan nodded. But then he looked again at Sean, and Sean thought of Dad’s eyes, of the concentration that got into them when he was doing a difficult glass cut. Not really a
sharp
look, because
sharp
could get mean and cut.
Focused
was a better word. “Sean, did you know there’ve also been animal killings near your house, in Roger Williams Park?”

He wasn’t surprised to hear it, but he could truthfully say, “No, sir.”

“Skunks, coons, feral cats, torn up like Hrothgar. And I heard from Providence Mounted Command that the horses in the park stables have been agitated the last couple of nights. I had a look around the stables this morning, and I found webbed prints like the ones by the river.”