The Dark Communion (The Midnight Defenders) (4 page)

“Right…Clint Johnson. You say that like I should know the bugger.”

“Sorry. He’s my Mom’s friend’s kid.” Eric fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. “Adam got blamed. But he said Dewey did it.”

Sure, I did Private and Paranormal Investigations, but it was all Private lately. With the possible exception of the bum this morning, it’d been all quiet on the Paranormal front. Maybe I was fishing for an edge to keep me interested in the case. “Tell me about this Dewey; what does he look like? Where is he from?”

His face got all scrunched up and uncomfortable for a second. Then, quieter than before, he said, “Nobody’s seen Dewey except for Adam. He’s…well…he’s imaginary.”

Bingo.

I leaned forward in my chair. “So your brother’s imaginary friend attacked this Johnson boy? What does your mom think about this?”

“She’s a wreck. I told you. She passes out every night. I haven’t seen her sober since the attack, honestly. It was only two days after that Adam went missing.”

“When was the attack?” I had a pad of paper now, a pen in my hand. I took notes.

“Umm…” He looked up at the ceiling, eyes kind of lolling around idly. “Like two, three weeks ago.”

“And you said Adam’s autistic?”

“I mean, well, kinda. There’s not really a term for what Adam is. He’s just…special, I guess. Autism is just the best way to describe it to new people.”

He pulled a leather-bound book from his backpack. “I’ve been seeing the school counselor, Tim. He wanted me to write stuff down. I…I marked the page. It’s the last entry.” He turned the book over in his hands a couple of times, and then passed it to me.

I took it and opened to the marked page. I didn’t read the words so much as listen to the voice of Eric Gables – used my ability to hear his own thoughts as he wrote. It was a practice I’d developed over time and was useful. People were careful what they wrote down for evaluation, but they didn’t censor their thoughts.

Mom just sits there. She’s worked all day; she’s tired. She drinks again, blaming herself. She’s a bad mother now. She hadn’t drank anything since Adam was two. It was hard enough raising a new baby on her own; he never had a father. I could pick mine out of a lineup. But Adam never even got a name. Mom never even knew him — She just woke up one morning pregnant. It wasn’t immaculate conception, though, just inebriated. No Holy Spirit or anything, just a ghost of a man who never really was.

When she thought Adam was autistic, she blamed the alcohol. Quit cold-turkey. Now she’s drinking again. Sober-by-day picks up a 12-pack on the way home. It’s because she has her own house-cleaning business and she doesn’t answer to anyone. She drowns her sorrows with Clint Black and John Michael Montgomery and her little FM station. She likes their songs, but she won’t sing along. She just cries.

I never go by the hospital. I never go by the Johnson house anymore, either. I haven’t been since Clint’s birthday party almost two weeks ago. I’m not sure if I feel guilty about it at all, I just don’t want Mrs. Johnson to see me. I don’t want to cause any trouble. I don’t want her to ask about things, how’s Mother holding up. I feel bad enough, I really don’t wanna feel worse.

“But what about the birthday party?” Tim asks.

“Clint Johnson’s?”

He nods. “Do you want to talk about that?”

“Cake. Ice cream. Presents.” I try to give him a smile. “We were sitting outside on the back patio. The kids were playing in the yard. It was hot. They had water balloons. Adam didn’t want to play. He wanted to sit and color, but Mother thought he needed to be with kids. It was healthier. Kids should play outside. Adam threw a fit, but Mother made him anyway. Clint Johnson didn’t really like Adam, either. He was a good kid, not really a brat or anything, just didn’t get along with Adam. None of them did. Adam wasn’t social. Sometimes he was violent, if they picked on him.”

“Sometimes kids think it’s funny to gang up on other kids,” Tim adds.

“They soaked him. Adam was drenched. It was all in good fun. But he didn’t know that. So he tackled Clint. He started hitting him, beating him with his fists.”

“What did your Mother do?” Tim asks.

I blink, seeing my Mother reclining in a lawn chair with an iced tea. She talks with four other ladies at a plastic table with a large canvas umbrella. No one pays attention to the children until the screaming starts.

All of the ladies are on their feet at once. Mother’s yelling and tripping down the steps into the yard with Mrs. Johnson on her heels, spurting accusations and profanity. The two women pull the children apart, Adam dripping water everywhere, Clint dripping blood from his nose.

“They were both taken inside,” I tell him. “Adam to dry off, Clint to bandage up. My Mother apologized religiously to Mrs. Johnson.”

“Then what?” Tim asks.

“For an awkward minute, everyone just stands there, unsure. Then they just go on as if nothing happened. About ten minutes later, both women are back outside, talking and laughing, still a little tense. Upset but trying to move on, ya know.”

“And what happened next, Son? What did you see?” It’s not Tim’s voice. It’s Detective Anderson’s. We’re in a private room at the hospital the day of the incident. I’m sitting uncomfortably in a leather armchair, looking at the white walls and the pastel paintings of flower fields hanging on them.

“I didn’t see anything,” I tell him. “Mrs. Johnson went back in the house to check on Clint. Then she screamed.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Not exactly. I heard…I didn’t see the boy. Is he okay?”

“The doctors are with him now. We’ll find out in time. It doesn’t look very good.”

I nod. I look at Detective Anderson’s face. Serious, stern.

“Have you ever heard the name Dewey before?”

I nod, wearily. My stomach turns.

“Your brother is refusing to answer any of our questions, and your Mother seems to be clueless.”

“I heard the screams of Mrs. Johnson,” I tell him. “We all rushed in. My Mother pushed her way past everyone else into the bathroom. Mrs. Johnson was standing in the doorway, her hands over her face. She was screaming and crying. My Mother was crying, and I couldn’t see her, but I heard her voice echo out of the bathroom, panicky, ‘call 911, we need an ambulance.’”

“And Dewey?”

“Adam was in the bathroom, he was crying louder than I ever heard from him before. He was saying, ‘Dewey! Dewey! Dewey did it, Momma! Dewey did it. I couldn’t stop him.’”

“That’s what your mother told me,” he says. “Who is Dewey?”

“He’s a friend of Adam’s,” I tell him. “That’s all I know.”

“What does he look like?”

“I’ve never seen him. To be honest, I don’t even think he’s real. Adam doesn’t really get along with most people. He makes up his own friends.”

Detective Anderson nods. “How long have they known each other?”

“Few months, maybe. I don’t know if you noticed,” I tell him, “but Adam doesn’t really talk a lot. He has a hard time communicating.”

Detective Anderson doesn’t say anything. He stares at the pastel fields.

“He cut him, didn’t he?” I ask.

But he doesn’t answer. Or if he does, I don’t hear.

The days between the accident and Adam’s disappearance are a blur. I don’t know if I sleep at all at night or just lay there. At some point, I find Adam, drawing a picture of a man covered in red bananas.

“Adam,” I say. “What are you drawing?”

He doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t look up at me. One of the bananas is leaking. “Clint.”

“Clint Johnson?” I watch the back of his head. “Adam, where’s Dewey?”

“Elensal,” he says.

“Where is that?”

“That’s where the dragons are.”

He sets his picture aside and pulls out another one. This has lavish green hills and a mountain spire in the center surrounded by black, red, green and blue dog-like animals with wings and long tails. There’s maybe a dozen of them, maybe two, and in the top left corner is a blood-red sun.

“Is that it?” I ask.

He nods. He’s looking at me and smiling. He never looks at me. It’s unsettling, and I look away. “I’m going to go there, Eric. Dewey’s going to show me the Rockbirds.”

“Adam, what happened with Clint?”

This time, he looks away.

“Where did you get that knife?”

He’s drawing black lines by the sun.

“Adam?”

“These are the Rockbirds.”

“Adam!”

He scoots his chair back across the linoleum floor and stands up. He walks to the kitchen door.

“Adam!?”

“There wasn’t a knife, Eric.” He doesn’t stop walking, and I can only barely hear the last, “Dewey used his claws.”

I blinked a few times.

“Shit.” I shook my head. There was a strong pressure behind my eyes, and I rubbed them before pinching the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger.

“Are you okay?” he asked. He sat at the edge of his seat. “You started twitching a little. Your eyes were doing this….” He tried to mimic it, fluttering his eyelids nervously. Ape says it looks like a person in REM sleep – like I’m dreaming. “And then….”

“I’m fine.”

“But….”

“I’m fine, kid.” I put a thumb to my temple and rubbed. “This Detective Anderson the one looking in on your brother’s case?”

“Yeah. He’s a friend of my mom’s. They went to school together.”

“Your mom’s got a lot of friends. You know the precinct he works in?”

“No. I…I can find out.”

“It’s okay. I’ll make a couple of calls. I’ll have to go and talk to him. What’s this Elensal place?”

“I have no idea. Adam used to draw dragons all the time, but there was…a turning point, I guess you could call it. Once he started talking about Elensal, his pictures of the dragons changed. They became scarier. More detailed. Do you think that means anything?”

I stood from the desk and grabbed my jacket from the coat rack.

“Could be. It’s early still, don’t know what’s important. But I’ll keep it in mind. You have a number, in case I need to get hold of you?”

He dropped the cash envelope on my desk. “Number’s on the back of the picture. Why? Where are you going?”

“Seems like I need to have a talk with this Detective Anderson.”

Seeing me standing, he stood, too. Put the backpack over his shoulders again. “So does this mean you’re taking the case?”

I nodded. “Can I keep the journal? Just…for insight. I’ll give it back when I’m done.” I walked him to the door and pushed it open for him.

“Yeah, of…of course.” He took the hint and walked through it, stood there on the landing. “Mr. Swyftt…”

“Yeah, kid?”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“I haven’t done anything yet. But I’ll be in touch.”

.

4

I walked back to my desk and phoned the house. Nobody answered, which was odd, as Ape was expecting me.

I made a few more calls and found out where Detective Anderson worked. By the time I got to the precinct, it was already 3 o’clock. The precinct was quiet, and I left my name with the receptionist. She was a mousey looking girl, glasses and braces, scraggily brown hair pulled up to make her look like she was just waiting for the high school chess team to start practice. But she had a nice voice, confident and playful, not at all what I would have expected, which is why I figured they had her answering phones.

She asked me to have a seat in the little waiting area and picked up the phone, spoke melodically into it. She had a voice for phone sex, maybe ran a 900 number on the side. I guess these days it was all webcams and internet videos, but knight’s-pawn-to-B-5 over there didn’t look like she could pull that off. But she was sitting down, I couldn’t tell what her arse looked like.

I sat on one of the hard plastic chairs. The table beside me held a stack of magazines, and I selected one that boasted articles about make-up and sex positions, things titled “Does He Really Love Me” and “How to Shed Those Extra Pregnancy Pounds.” On the cover was an actress called Julia Roberts in what looked like a sixth-grader’s Sadie Hawkins’ dress: a shiny strapless navy blue number secured by a ribbon and bow six inches thick.

I barely got the magazine opened when a booming thunder of a voice called, “Mr. Swyftt?”

I looked up, saw a man that was comfortably well-fed and under-exercised. With the buzz cut, my first thought was ex-military. He was younger than me – late 30s, sandy colored hair, grey-striped shirt and blue slacks, no tie. He smiled and said, “I’m Detective Anderson. How can I help you?”

He offered me his hand. I took it. “Is it cold outside?” he asked.

I’d put on leather gloves, as I was tired and a bit dizzy still from the strong flash from the teddy. My ability needed skin-contact to work. “Poison ivy,” I said. “Dropped my keys into some while I was taking a piss in the woods.”

He arched an eyebrow at me curiously. “Pee in the woods often then?”

I nodded, smiled back. “Me and the bears.”

He chuckled a little. “I’ll be. Well, what can I do ya for?”

“I was hoping to ask a few questions, if that’s alright,” I told him. “The Gables’ boy is paying me to find his brother. I was told you could catch me up to speed.”

He nodded, and his expression calmed a little. “Why don’t you come on back to my office, Mr. Swyftt.”

He led the way through a sea of desks and cubicles, copy machines and water coolers. “We can get you a subscription, if you’d like. They’ve got a fantastic column on celebrity fashion, though I don’t suppose that’s what you read it for.”

Confused, I looked down, discovered I was still holding the magazine. I was dressed in black: jeans, leather jacket, and a t-shirt with a white ring-collar. I thought I looked good. “I didn’t realize you were also with the fashion police, Detective.”

He chuckled again.

“I met her once, you know,” I said, motioning to the cover. I set the magazine down on a random desk as we passed.

“You met Julia Roberts?” he asked.

“Sure. Hired me a few years back, after making those Vegas movies.”

“You don’t say.”

“Clooney or one of those other fuck-holes put green dye in her shampoo, and she was looking for payback. Wanted me to hex a parakeet or some bollocks.”

“You can do that?”

“No,” I said.

He chuckled a bit. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Swyftt. You’ve got a good reputation with some of my colleagues. Lieutenant Gibbs, for one.”

When I met Gibbs, he was working a hit-and-run case in the Industrial district. Would have been the next casualty but for me. Some wayward spirit had possessed one of the retired trolley cars – very Stephen King.

“Gibbs. That soddin’ prick. Tell him he still owes me a hundred bucks.”

“I’ll do that,” the detective answered. “Pardon my asking, but I can’t help notice your accent. Australian?”

“English. Grew up in Portsmouth.”

He studied me a moment. “You sure it’s not Australian?”

“I think I’d remember something like that: kangaroos in my backyard. The accent’s Americanized. Been on this side of the pond almost as long as I was over there.”

“I’m a Texan, myself. Born and raised. Moved up here for college and liked it so much I stuck around.”

His office was a big glass box filled with filing cabinets, a large wooden desk, and enough stacks of paper to fill a half dozen phone books. “Excuse the mess,” he said as we entered. “You can have a seat. I’m a little behind on some paper work, as you can no doubt tell.”

There were two nice chairs facing his desk. I took one. “I remember the days.”

“You were in law enforcement?” he asked, took his own seat.

“CID, back in London.”

“Not familiar with that one,” he said.

“Like CSI, without the sunglasses. But that was a lifetime ago. Sometimes I miss it, but seeing this makes me feel better.”

“No doubt.” He took a sip of coffee. “Get ya anything to drink?”

“Coffee.”

He disappeared for a moment, came back and handed me a cup. I sipped from the Styrofoam cup. It was weak, room-temperature. I took another sip and set it on the edge of his desk.

“Alright, well, the Gables’ case,” Anderson said. “What do you want to know?”

“What can you tell me?”

He scratched his chin for a minute, thinking. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the attack on Clint Johnson?”

“Eric mentioned it. I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

He shrugged. “Nothing to say. We’ve been over every inch of that house, no entry, no exit, no one saw anything, including Clint Johnson. No weapon of any kind found. No blood evident on Adam Gables.”

“A spirit?”

He laughed stiffly, clearly not a believer. “Like a ghost?” He took another sip of coffee. With a chuckle, he said, “As far-fetched as that sounds, it’s better than what we got. No leads, no suspects.”

“Ever think he did it to himself? Eric says Clint and Adam never got along. Clint cuts himself up, Adam takes a huge fall. Adam doesn’t talk to stand up for himself.”

“You’re a strange man, Mr. Swyftt.”

“Call me Jono.”

“Why would you guess an 8-year-old boy would inflict forty-seven lacerations across his arms, chest, legs, back and face?”

My first thought? Possession of some kind – Lord knows I’d seen enough of that in my time. “My guess is his body wasn’t searched for a weapon. But the bathroom and Adam were.”

“My granddaddy was a doctor. He used to tell me, if you hear hoofbeats behind you, don’t expect a zebra.” He eyed me curiously. “I don’t know how they do things in England or what it was like being a kid in your home, but Clint Johnson’s a good kid.”

“Maybe,” I shrugged. In my line of business, every possible solution was one to consider. I hear hoofbeats, I think centaurs, satyrs, bonnacons, hippogriffs. I don’t stop to consider it or turn to look, I just get out of the fucking way. Tragically, rules like that were what kept the public ignorant of what was really going on. Nobody wants to stretch themselves anymore to believe; it’s all superstition and hokum. “And you checked the window?” I asked.

“Window was open, and the yard outside was searched. No weapons were found there. No tracks. The window frame was dusted for prints, came up clean.”

“I’ll admit, I’m intrigued. I’d like to help, Detective. Would it be possible for me to talk to the boy or visit the bathroom in question?”

“No need. You won’t get anything.”

“Perhaps not, but I’d like to try.” Surely, with my ability, I’d find something that they missed.

“I’d sure appreciate it if you could just leave that family alone, Mr. Swyftt. The Johnsons have been through plenty, and that’s not even the case we’ve been looking into. The real mystery here is where Adam Gables disappeared to.” He cleared his throat. “And honestly, that case has been put on the backburner for the time being. I’m tired of feeling like a dog chasing his tail.

We’re just waiting for the next move.”

“I’m sorry…next move?”

Anderson leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the corner of the desk. “There’s a theory floating around the department that this may be just another in a string of missing children lately, nearly a hundred kids in the Seattle area in the last five months.”

“That many?” I could feel a headache coming on. Suddenly the five cases I’d taken lately didn’t mean very much. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes. “I’m familiar with some of the abductions. I found three of them this morning. Dead. Some homeless guy squatting in an abandoned house. This can’t be related.”

Anderson was quiet. When I opened my eyes, he met my gaze seriously.

“We found three bodies in a house this morning. Someone phoned in gunshots. That was you, huh?” I shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll pardon my saying so, Mr. Swyftt, but it’s possible that it might be related. Too many broken records lately to be coincidence.”

“How so?”

“Look, I probably shouldn’t be telling you all this, but Rebecca Gables is a good friend of mine and my hands are tied, so if this can help you find that boy, I’ll be able to sleep better at night.” He took another swig of coffee, wiped a little off his mustache. “That thing today? Same thing last week. Homeless guy the other side of town. One child found, barely alive. Still in intensive care. The bones of another found in a closet. Last month, an old factory in the Industrial district, night foreman saw a man loitering around, called it in. We get there in time to see a regular of the soup kitchen moving on from broth to a five-year-old girl. She’s alive, but she’ll be in a wheel chair the rest of her life from what that bastard did to her. The real kicker, each of these homeless abductees, fingers sharpened to the bone. None of them able to speak or be reasoned with.”

Anderson leaned back in his chair. Shot me one of those “I told you so” glances without having to say anything more.

“Can I talk to the girl, then? If all these are connected….”

“She’s been through enough already. Her family’s traumatized. The man who did it to her is dead, shot trying to attack one of the officers. There’s no need.”

I took a deep breath. “An underground ring of serial-kidnapping, cannibal bums? Not much for a punch-line.”

“Yeah, it’s not exactly floating with the FBI, either.”

“What FBI?”

But Anderson didn’t answer. It was a different voice, honey sweet and milky smooth, and more than a hint of sarcasm, resentment, and professional indignation. “Not the Funny Book of Insults.”

I could actually smell her before she spoke: Cinnamon vanilla and something floral. Intoxicating, really, and familiar.

I spun in my chair, saw those eyes, as brilliantly, hauntingly blue as the shirt she wore under the black pantsuit, blonde ponytail, and smug expression. Natasha Stone, FBI, was leaning against the doorframe, arms and legs crossed.

“Don’t get up, Mr. Swyftt. I do believe we’re well acquainted.”

I could feel the smile stretch across my face. “Agent Stone. So good to see you again, love.”

She forced a smile as she entered the room. I thought she might take the chair next to me and stay awhile, but she merely stood over me like a scornful parent. “Special Agent, actually.”

“Right, sorry, love. Forgot about your short-bus education.”

“Charming as always. Now, I’m afraid this is a Federal Investigation, Mr. Swyftt and as such, the details are classified. So why don’t you run on back to your playhouse and let the professionals handle this.”

“Like this morning?”

She didn’t even bat an eyelash. “So that was you fleeing the scene of the crime. I thought I recognized that stink. You realize I could have you arrested…”

“For what?”

“For murdering my suspect, thus hindering his ability to get a fair and unbiased trial before I lock his ass away for life and close another case.”

“You smell so fucking pretty,” I said. “You wanna grab a coffee or something? I’m just wrapping up here.”

Her laugh was cold and strange.

I thumbed over my shoulder, trying to be as playful as I could. “I’m sure Detective Anderson will loan us a key to one of those jail cells back there, Pretty. Why don’t we just shag now and cut the tension.”

She didn’t look amused. “I’ve got a jail cell for you, alright. If you interfere again in a federal crime scene, I won’t hesitate to use it.” Then she turned and stormed out of the room.

“Hate to see you go, love…,” I mused, catching a wink.

“I take it you know her.” Anderson sounded like a curious little kitten.

I threw him some yarn to play with. “Old friend. About ten years ago when she was a rookie agent, I helped her crack the case that made her what she is today.”

“What, she hire you?”

“Hire me and take all the credit herself? That would be unethical, I might think.” I shot him a wicked grin. “I wasn’t free-lance then. I worked with a group of…specialists. We were working the same case from different angles, our paths crossed.”

“Guess you guys don’t see eye-to-eye anymore,” he offered over the rim of his coffee mug.

“That was ten years ago. People change.” I was getting a little tired of the conversation. “So about this case…”

“What happened to the specialists?”

I sighed. “They’re around. You can hire them if you know where to look.”

“Like the A-Team?” he chuckled.

Yes, like the fucking A-Team. Idiot. “More like the Ghostbusters.” I set one of my business cards on his desk. He just watched me, dopily. “Seeing that the FBI doesn’t buy into the hobo kidnapping ring, there’s a bunch of closed or cold cases, Detective. If you find a moment, I’d sure appreciate a list of names for those missing kids, for Rebecca Gables, of course. Going back, you said…five months?”

He picked the card up. “Couldn’t hurt. Give me a few hours, Mr. Swyftt. I’ll have somebody get that information over to you. Fax number on the….” He looked at the card. “Paranormal investigations, eh? You’re not that psychic they talk about in Precinct 8…?”