The Faceless One (26 page)

The marks on Bobby’s torso were clearly the imprint of large, thin fingers, as if something had thrust him up from the bottom of the pond.

Jimmy and George ate lunch at the All-Stars Café on Hollywood Boulevard. George had wanted to go to Musso and Frank’s, but a quick perusal of the menu had shown that they would use up their budget for lunch, dinner, and the next day’s breakfast in one meal. Jimmy promised George they’d eat their last dinner there, funds permitting.

The All-Stars was on the corner of Hollywood and Dorset. The building had been many different restaurants over time, including a rather fashionable eatery in the thirties. Currently, it was a rather seedy coffee shop that offered everything from Cobb salads to falafel to fried chicken. The food was not particularly good, but it was filling.

Jimmy was depressed. They had walked all around the Chinese Theater and found no clue as to where or how they should proceed.

George looked at Jimmy as he ate his bacon cheeseburger. The burger was thick and greasy, like a goddamned burger should be. Not one of those gray and microwaved pieces of shit they served at Golden Summer. The fries were almost burned, which was fine by George. They were packed with an oily, salty, forbidden flavor. He ate his lunch with gusto, savoring the myriad flavors that exploded in his mouth. Jimmy, on the other hand, had hardly touched his club sandwich. George asked him if he was going to eat his fries, and Jimmy just waved at them with dismissal. George grabbed a handful and sprinkled a liberal dose of seasoned salt on them. If Nurse Belva had seen any of this,
she
would have had the heart attack she always warned him against.

“What’s the matter, Jimmy?”

Jimmy looked up. George called him Jimmy only when things were serious, like the time Jimmy had broken down on the anniversary of Rose’s death.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he said, his voice filled with misery.

“I thought this Raven would give you a heads-up.”

“That’s the problem.
Yéil
is a Trickster. He could just as easily be having a laugh at my expense.”

“Why would one of your gods go to all this trouble to torture an old man?”

“He’s a god, George. How the hell am I supposed to know why he’d do what he’d do?”

George took another bite of his bacon cheeseburger and dabbed at the grease on his chin
with a paper napkin.

“So what do you want to do?”

Jimmy thought.

“Maybe I should go to the library, see if I can find anything on the Internet about The Faceless One.”

George nodded but grimaced inwardly. Spending hours at the library was not his idea of adventure. If this was just one, big, wild-goose chase—make that wild-raven chase—then he didn’t want to spend his time surrounded by books. Nurse Belva had probably raised the alarm already, and he didn’t want to get dragged back to Golden Summer without some tales to tell.

Jimmy could read George well and smiled.

“I don’t need your help at the library, George. Why don’t you do drop me off and do some sightseeing?”

George wanted to leap at this suggestion, but it seemed disloyal.

“I dunno, Cochise, you might need my keen eye or something.”

Jimmy smirked. “My eyes are much better than yours, Uncle Remus.”

“Do tell, Tonto.”

“Yeah, I’m not the one who said Bea Arthur was a fine piece of ass.”

“That was the picture on that shitty television, and you know it, Crazy Horse.”

“Whatever you say, Amos.” Jimmy’s eyes sparkled.

“How many times I gotta tell you, Amos and Andy weren’t black.”

“And you think the actor that played Cochise was Indian?”

George had no answer for that and sourly ate the rest of his fries.

After lunch, George and Jimmy found the location of the Francis Howard Goldwyn—Hollywood Regional Library in a phone book. George drove Jimmy to the location on Ivar and decided to go in and make sure Jimmy would have access to what he needed. After that, George thought he might do some more sightseeing at the Chinese Theater; maybe see if one of those young gals would give him a tumble.

Once inside, Jimmy went to consult with a librarian about computer access. They had passed a cybercafe on the way and decided they’d use some of their money to rent computer time if the library didn’t come through.

While he was waiting, George looked over the collection of free publications and flyers announcing events around town. He was about to pick up a copy of
L.A. Weekly
when a familiar word caught his eye.

* * *

The librarian had been pleasant but hadn’t given Jimmy any good news. Computers at the library were expressly for finding books at this library or others on the network.

Jimmy turned as George was walking up, waving a bright yellow flyer.

In that moment, Jimmy saw two things: over George’s head was a display of art by local students. One piece was a papier-mâché sculpture of Pallas with a raven perched on its head. It was somewhat crude but unmistakably Poe. The other thing he noticed was the flyer George was holding. It was from a place called the Southwest Museum. The headline read,
HEROES UNDER THE NORTHERN LIGHTS: LEGENDS OF THE ESKIMO, TLINGIT, HAIDA, AND KWAKIUTL
.

“Look, Cochise, somebody else knows how to spell your name,” George said, beaming.

Jimmy looked up again at the bust of Pallas.

The papier-mâché raven seemed to stare straight at him, its marble eyes glinting.

Stan had barely gotten back to his little mental haven before the Big Boss returned. Amazingly enough, it coaxed him from his hiding place with a promise that he would not be harmed. Before the Big Boss had just pulled his strings, delighting in the appearance of one of his emotional avatars. Now the Big Boss was whirling around the landscape of his mind like a winter storm, chilling his mind with its dark and crystalline thoughts.

Stan’s breath steamed inside the hot car, as if he were in the deep snows of Vermont, where his grandparents had lived. His hands froze slightly to the wheel. He did not notice, merely drove ahead as the Big Boss held his mind in its icy grip.

There was an eagerness about the thing now. Whatever emergency had taken it away had been resolved. It told Stan in its language of ice and sleet and lightless wastes that it was not going to toy with him any longer. It needed him to get to California as quickly as possible. He would be allowed to stop only to refuel the vehicle. If he needed to relieve himself, he would be permitted to do so only while the vehicle was refueling. Any deviation from this pattern would result in a long, slow death while the Big Boss selected another courier. Stan, being of rational mind, worried about food and drink. The Big Boss told him he would be allowed to stock up one last time. However, should he run out of sustenance, the Big Boss would provide for him. The thought of what might pass for food to such a perverse being made Stan feel queasy—its idea of healthy meals might be some revolting mélange of spiders and maggots.

Stan asked him why he didn’t just take the package himself, why he didn’t just whisk it around with his magic powers. That question earned him a blinding flash of pain that caused him to vomit all over the steering wheel. The Big Boss said that for such impertinence, he would have to drive in his own filth for the rest of the trip.

The Big Boss wrapped him in several new strands of frigid mind silk. Any deviation from his route, from his task, and it would know. Then it was gone, and Stan was in control of himself again, as much as he could be.

The car quickly heated up again once the Big Boss was gone. Stan began to perspire, and the car began to fill with the smell of vomit. The odor made him gag, and he rolled down the window. He desperately wanted to wipe the mess away with some napkins, but knew this would be seen as an infraction.

He now had a couple of new pieces of information and tacked them carefully on the bulletin board he had fabricated in the Detective portion of his mind.

New Fact 1: The Big Boss had taken some of his memories. Stan had gone through everything he knew, sifting through the files of knowledge, looking for what might be missing. He had found gaps in his knowledge of first aid and memories of fishing on his uncle’s pond in Vermont. The gaps seemed small, but significant, somehow. When he had been a cop (was it within this lifetime?), he had often set his subconscious mind to work on a problem while he gathered clues. Often the answer would come in dreams, or doodles he would make on his pad while on the phone. He had set his subconscious to the task of filling in those gaps, using the context of remaining facts as a guide.

New Fact 2: The Big Boss was tied to the package but seemed unable to carry or transport it. In fact, it seemed to prefer to keep its distance from the package for now, as if it was adversely affected by it. This seemed significant in regards to a being that was damn near omnipotent.
But a fuckup
, he reminded himself. It might be a god, but it wasn’t God.

New Fact 3: Whatever was coming, it had just accelerated. If he was going to stop the Big Boss, it would have to be soon.

He had cleaned out the Texaco register, and his cop instincts had led him to a grimy, fake oil can filled with over three thousand dollars in twenties. The driver may have been saving for a rainy day, but Stan’s experience told him drugs were involved. Still, it didn’t warrant the hideous things the guy had endured. He tried not to think about that, and actually felt a hot flush of shame when his stomach rumbled at the thought of eating.

He rolled into a large complex outside of St. Louis. He bought a full tank of gas and a bag of groceries: sandwiches, chips, fruit, bottled water, and Coke. He had also purchased a styrofoam ice chest to keep the drinks and sandwiches cold. The clerk had wrinkled his nose when Stan approached but said nothing when Stan flashed his cash. He had then driven through a Burger King and gotten what might be his last hot meal. Two double Whoppers with cheese, large fries, onion rings, apple pie, and a large coffee.

As last meals went, it was pretty pitiful.

He ate the food, trying to savor each bite. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t come out of this alive. The most he might hope for was to avenge Richie’s death and prevent any more occurrences like the one at the Texaco station. Clearing his name seemed impossible. His kids would live the rest of their lives thinking he was a sicko, a serial killer who had perpetrated some of the most horrific murders in New York history. That hurt. He wished he could call them, try to explain, but any contact with friends or family was strictly forbidden by the Big Boss.

Puppet on a string, little cop marionette dancing on icy cobwebs.

His anger flashed, and he got it under control before Angry Stan took over.

If he was going to see this through, he had to be as lucid as possible.

Throwing the wrappers of his dinner into the backseat, he headed for Oklahoma.

He had just over a day to figure things out.

Fuck, he wished Richie were here.

Well, here and
alive
, he amended.

Jake Sparks showed up at Southampton Hospital with Bonomo Bear. Liz thanked the big man and took Bonomo to Bobby. Steven could hear the boy’s delighted cheer from the hall. He felt a surge of happiness for the first time that afternoon.

“How is he?” Jake Sparks asked.

“Okay. The doctor wants to keep him overnight for observation.”

“Pollard feels terrible about this. He wanted me to tell you he’d like to pay for Bobby’s hospital visit.”

“He afraid we’ll sue?” The words were out before Steven could stop them.

Sparks looked at him and frowned slightly. “I’m sure it’s crossed his mind,” he answered.

“Liz and I wouldn’t sue. Something scared Bobby, and he stumbled into the fishpond. Who could have predicted that?”

It looked like he dove into the pond, not stumbled
, Steven thought unexpectedly.

Steven remembered the events at the Pollard home, how his fight with Tully happened just before Bobby’s … panic attack. “Jake, what’s the deal with Max Tully?”

Sparks looked at him and hesitated.

“He’s got something against Daniel. What is it?” Steven looked at him intently.

“Tully has some … unusual theories,” Sparks said, looking as if he were betraying some sacred oath.

“Were these theories my brother shared?”

Sparks shrugged. “I don’t know. Tully had wanted me to go on a dig with him in Alaska. When I got wind of what he was planning, I begged off. He went to Daniel after that.”

“So Daniel went. What made you stay behind?”

Sparks motioned to the door of Bobby’s room. “Maybe you want to be with your son,” he said.

“Liz is with him. I need to know about my brother, Jake. The police have been no help, and the papers think he was killed by the Taxidermist, if there is such a person.” He felt his stomach lurch as he thought of the strange things he and Bobby had seen, but decided not to share those with Sparks.

Sparks regarded him calmly for a moment, then nodded. “Why don’t we grab a cup of
coffee in the cafeteria?” he asked.

Steven went to tell Liz where he’d be. Bobby was holding Bonomo. He brightened when his father entered the room. “Look, Daddy! Mr. Sparks brought Bonomo!”

“I see that. I bet he missed you.”

“Yeah, I missed him, too.”

Liz looked at him. Her eyes were a little misty. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Jake might have some information on Daniel,” Steven said in a low voice. “I’m going down to the cafeteria to have a cup of coffee with him. Is that okay?”

“Sure. You really think he knows something?”

“I’m not sure, but he knows someone who does.”

Steven went over to Bobby.

“Sweetie, I have to go downstairs but I’ll be back in a little bit. Mommy will stay with you, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy.” Bobby crooked his finger, motioning his father to come closer.

Steven leaned down, hovering close to his son’s face.