Moonheart (17 page)

Jamie released the hold and the image went drifting upwards. He read the others as they went by.

The computer ran through all thirteen Prime bones, then started on the Secondary ones.

Reaching out, Jamie blacked the screen, saw that his hand was trembling and sat back in his chair, staring at nothing.

He had never entered that information into Memoria. He
knew
that. He was the only person who used it, storing
his
findings. Anything else, whether from his correspondents or the journals of his father and grandfather, was entered only by him. No one else touched it. And if he hadn't entered the information...

And such information. The images struck right to the heart. The Hazel Staff was magic power, journeying, wisdom. What else could it be if you correlated it with mythological symbolism? The Iron Sword was justice, courage, authority.

This was it— the key he'd been searching for for all these years. Leaning forward, he reactivated the screen. He typed in WEIRDIN, then SOURCE? Moments later the answer was on the screen. Pale blue letters against the dark background spelled out the name: THOMAS HENGWR.

"Hengwr?" Jamie said aloud. "But when could he have had access to Memoria?"

"Must have been around seventy-three."

Jamie sat very still, then slowly turned. Sitting in one of the chairs near the fireplace was a curious individual with pronounced and deft-nite features that seemed to have been carved by a craftsperson more interested in details than the work as a whole. Hawk's nose, bulging eyes. High forehead, gaunt cheeks.

"I'm surprised it took you so long to find it," Tom said. "Though I can see that you already understand what that information can mean to your studies."

Jamie just stared. Click-click-click. His mind correlated incidents from the past few days.

"You're the one the police are looking for," he said at last.

"But not for any criminal activity," Tom explained. "It's more because of what I know and what they hope to do with what I know. It's a rather complicated state of affairs— especially at this particular time."

"How did you get in here?" Jamie demanded. "What are you doing here?"

Another thought occurred to him. How could he have forgotten?

"Sara! What've you done with her?"

Tom Hengwr's hand drifted lazily up to stroke the air between them. With the slow movement of those gnarled fingers, Jamie felt an easing of the sudden pressure that had been building up in his temples.

"I came through the door," Tom said, "though I entered the House from the gardens. Most amazing gardens."

Jamie swallowed, wondering where the electricity in the air had come from. The whole room seemed to be charged with static. "Do you know where Sara is, Tom?"

"With my apprentice Kieran. She's safe enough for now, Jamie, have no fear. Neither Inspector Tucker nor... others that might harm her can reach her."

Jamie tugged at his beard, then, to give himself something calming to do, began to fill his pipe. His hands were still trembling. "
Where
is she?"

"That's more difficult to explain." Tom drew his legs up under him and leaned against the arm of his chair. "Turn off old man computer there and come have a seat by the fireplace with me. It's a long story, you see. It has its start about fifteen hundred years ago. In Wales."

"Aled Evans," Jamie said.

"He too had a part to play— though not the one I thought. To be honest, the whole matter's out of our hands now. I'll tell you, Jamie, I thought it would be you and me that would see the end to the story, but now it seems as though our part is done. Your niece and my apprentice will have to see it through."

Jamie blackened Memoria's screen again and, taking his pipe and matches with him, took the chair opposite his uninvited guest.

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about," he said.

"I'll try to explain."

Tucker pulled his Buick up to the Bank Street curb near the corner of Powell. Turning off the ignition, he got out and pocketed the keys. In the passenger's seat, Constable Daniel Collins shook a Pall Mall from a crumpled pack, lit it, then joined the Inspector where he stood stating at the dark bulk of Tamson House.

Collins was tall and lean, with a thick bush of light brown hair and a small moustache. His face was long and angular, his eyes dark. For all Collins's chain smoking, Tucker knew he was in better physical shape than any man in his squad. But the smoking was going to catch up to him, sooner or later, Tucker thought, and he'd be sorry.

The width of Bank Street and a section of the park were between them and the House, but even from where they stood, the building seemed to go on forever. A great big sprawl of rooms like nothing else in the city. It was funny how there wasn't more attention paid to the place. It dated back to the early part of the century and should have been classified as a heritage home by now. Should have been turned into a block of apartments, or a museum, or
something.
Not just a big private house, more empty than not.

Collins took a drag from his cigarette and stole a glance at the Inspector. It was almost one o'clock and the Glebe night was very still. The shadows in the park had an eeriness about them, as though strange shapes were moving through their dark tangles. Tucker's features were hard, and his whole body gave off tension. Collins knew just what he was feeling. Paul Thompson had been his partner. He still couldn't believe Paul was dead, except he'd seen the body and...

He still couldn't get over what had gone down earlier this evening. The worst thing was knowing that, no matter what he did, he couldn't make what had happened go away. Activity might ease the pain somewhat, but it wouldn't make it go away. And reading that shit in the paper, the lies that the brass had used for the cover-up...

He sighed. At least it made Paul out to be a hero. Taking another drag, Collins flicked his half-smoked butt across the street. It landed in a shower of sparks in the middle of the road.

"Are we going in?" he asked.

"Who's on the stakeout?" Tucker replied.

"Bailey. He took over at midnight. He should be parked about halfway down Patterson."

"Have you been following the reports?" Tucker asked.

"Not much in 'em," Collins replied.

"There's nothing in them!"

Tucker turned away at last and leaned on the car, arms folded on the roof to prop up his chin.

"You read the file on this place?" he asked. "There must be fifteen front doors, at least. What kind of a house is that? How the hell can we keep tabs on a place like that? Christ, I'll tell you, I'm sick to death of this operation."

Collins shook another cigarette loose and dug in his pocket for his lighter. He said nothing. He hadn't worked with hard-ass Tucker before this project, but he'd heard stories. The one thing you didn't do was shoot off your mouth when he was in one of his moods. They said a rabid dog was friendlier.

They stood by the car, neither speaking. When his new cigarette was half smoked, Collins flipped it away, started to reach for another, then just stuck his hands in his pockets. He was remembering Paul Thompson's face. He hadn't enjoyed going down to the morgue earlier tonight. But he'd had to go. He just felt he owed Paul that much. But remembering, a coldness started up in his bowels. What the hell was it that killed a man like that? Paul had been heeled, too. Had his piece out and ready to fire. He'd never even got off a shot.

Tucker stirred.

"Let's go," he said and opened the driver's door.

Collins started to speak, then thought better of it. Wordlessly, he went around to his own side of the car and got in.

"I want to see what he does tomorrow," Tucker said as he turned over the engine. "I want to know who he talks to, where he goes, what he has for lunch, how many shits he takes. If he's involved, something'll break. Of all of them, he'll break first."

"What about the girl?"

"I don't know about her. I know she was meeting Foy at Patty's Place, but somehow I just didn't read her as a part of all this. If she is involved, she's going to be tougher to crack.
If we
can even find her. But I'll tell you this, Collins. We'll get them. Whoever's responsible for offing Thompson, we'll get them. Right now I don't want to do something that'll let some smart-assed lawyer get him off on a technicality. When we go for him, I want him dead to rights."

Putting the car into gear, he floored the gas pedal and took off with a squeal of rubber. Beside him Collins just stared through the windshield, his own feelings mirroring Tucker's. They needed something hard, something that'd stick. They just had to be patient. But there was one thing Collins promised himself. When they finally brought somebody in, he was going to go a few rounds with him in the interrogation room.

I'm dreaming again, Sara thought.

She had to be. Tall pines and larches reared on all sides of her, filling the night air with the pungent scent of their resin. A carpet of needles cushioned each step she took: Each step...

Sara stopped abruptly. Where was she? The last thing she remembered was being in Patty's Place when— She shivered. Had that been a dream, too? Where did one stop and the other begin? Leaning against a tree, she slid down, drawing her knees up to her chin, hugging her legs to stop trembling.

Dreams weren't supposed to be like this. Not... this real. Not with trees whose rough bark poked at her through her sweatshirt. Or sap that stuck to her fingers where she touched it, or the lonely sound of the wind traveling through the topmost branches. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to wake, but nothing changed. The realization that she had no control over the situation raised goosebumps on her skin.

When had she started this dream? Before she found the ring? She held up her hand to look at it. Even in the dim light of the forest it was clearly visible, for a dull light seemed to emanate from it. Was it real? Or had the dream started after she'd found it?

She remembered the beast men, one like a stag and one like a bear, and then the other thing— like a bear, too, but with fetid breath and gaping jaws... She'd seen, no, sensed it twice. She'd only seen it once, and that was to the accompaniment of the bear/shaman's bone discs. Then she'd sensed it— once when the RCMP Inspector was questioning her in The Merry Dancers, fleetingly, and again in the restaurant.

She buried her face in her hands. What was happening to her? Oh, God. What if nothing was? What if she was just losing her mind?

She lifted her head, wiping the unshed tears from her eyes. The forest was too real to be a dream. She had to accept that, somehow, she'd been transported to it, though for what reason still remained a mystery. It was probably in Quebec somewhere. In the Gatineau Hills. She had to start walking until she got to a road and could find her way back home. She'd figure out what direction she should be heading in by taking a reading from the stars. All those nights of staring dreamily into the night skies might just pay off.

She stood up, but hesitated again. If someone
had
dropped her off here, there had to be a reason for it. They were probably close by still, watching for her reactions. That, or it was some sicko who was waiting for her to freak out completely before coming after her with an axe. Her legs began to tremble again.

Kneeling, she scrabbled through the pine needle carpet until she came up with a length of wood thick and long enough to serve as a club. She broke off the twigs that stuck out from it and stood up again, hefting it. It didn't make her feel much better.

The forest was awfully quiet. Her own breathing sounded ragged and harsh to her ears— a sure signal to anyone who was stalking her. Stalking. Why did she have to use that word? She held her breath, then let it out slowly, repeating that until she felt a little calmer. She took a couple of steps, being careful not to snap a twig, and was surprised at how soundlessly she moved.

What if this was a dream? Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. If it was a dream, nothing could really hurt her then, could it? Didn't you just wake up when things got too scary? That was comforting, except for the small voice at the back of her head that asked: What about all those people who die in their sleep? Maybe that was what happened when you
didn't
wake up in time.

Move, she told herself. Start moving. It's not doing you any good to be hanging around here.

Again the actual motion was more a glide than her normal pace. She bit back questions as they formed in her mind and just kept going. She sped through the forest as sinuously as a panther, like a ghost, like water flowing downhill, making its own pathway. She avoided the trees and protruding branches with an unnatural grace. It didn't even seem as though she was using her legs. She was just flowing, faster and faster, until her surroundings started to mist and blur in her sight.

It
is
a dream, she thought thankfully. Soon I'll wake up and everything I'll be all right.

The forest was thinning, or disappearing. She refused to let it bother her. This was a dream. If she just went with the flow she'd wake up soon enough. Dreams didn't last forever. Most of them were only a few moments long in actual time, however lengthy they seemed when you were in the middle of them. At least that was what she remembered reading somewhere.

She slowed down to see where she was. She was still traveling through woodlands, but the forest was now made up of black spruce and groundcover of reindeer moss that spread a greenish-mauve color over broken stumps and windfallen trees. Moving slowly forward, she stepped out on a high ridge and looked out over a wide expanse of water. The headland on which she stood was a fractured limestone cliff that towered some three hundred feet above the shoreline. Below her, along the shore, were sand dunes, beaches, and salt marshes.