Beneath the Mall of Madness (A Jaspar Windisle Mystery Book 1) (12 page)

“We’ve been talking,” Theresa said, “and agreed that the evil mastermind is probably staying in one of the tourist hotels. They’re open after our hotel has shut down for the night. You’re an outsider and Zebulon’s good at chatting people up so you’d be perfect to ask around.”

“I’m not interested in getting into more trouble,” I told her. “I’d prefer to avoid it.”

“People are already trying to kill you,” Zebulon pointed out. “It’s not like we’re going to go to a gathering of cultists and ask if they’ve murdered anyone lately. We’re just going to go to a cheesy club and ask about monster sightings.”

“How cheesy is cheesy?” I asked.

“There’s a paper
mache
plesiosaur hanging from the ceiling,” Theresa said. “It’s supposed to look like the Loch Ness Monster. They also have a Big Foot statue at the front door.”

“Wait, how would you know?” Zebulon asked. “It’s eighteen and older.”

“Uncle Mordecai had his victory party there, remember?” She said. “He rented the whole place. All the campaign decorations just improved the look.”

“And this is the most popular club in town?”

“For the tourists,” Zebulon said. “There’s a better place for us locals, and a private club run by some of the scarier cultists. We won’t be able to get into that one. Someone collecting gullible victims would go to the Battery. Now let’s get going. We don’t want to distract Fiona from her work.”

When we left, the light was still on in the attic.

The next day I spent the morning playing with Sparks and reading in the lobby. The sheriff kept dropping by to ask questions. Since I was in public, I tried not to let it bother me too much. He didn’t seem happy that I was going to a club that evening. I asked if he wanted me to talk to the dead kidnappers, but he turned me down.

“The FBI is supposed to be showing up tomorrow,” he told me. “I think it’s better if we all treat you as a fake psychic, don’t you?” I could see his point. I’ve finally got a good thing going, and I definitely don’t want to mess it up. Not that I believe the government is filled with sinister secret programs, but I’ve also got my apparent immortality to worry about. I don’t want someone a hundred years from now to look me up online and see that I haven’t aged. With my luck, they’d decide I was a vampire. These days that could lead to a stake through the heart or a cult following. Neither appealed to me.

Zebulon showed up after lunch wearing leather pants and a leather jacket over a red fishnet tank top. He was also wearing black eyeliner and lipstick. It was quite a change from the suit he wore at the bar or the camo he’d been wearing yesterday.

“I thought you’d be dressed to go to the range,” I said. He shook his head.

“We’re going clubbing after, remember? I prefer to look as tacky as possible when I question potential cult members. I’ve even got a dog collar I’ll add later.” He looked me over. “You’re dressed alright, I guess.”

“That’s good because I don’t have any other clothes.” I was dressed entirely in Obadiah’s old clothes now. I wasn’t sure any of the clothes I’d brought with me were salvageable at this point. After doing my best to scrape the worst of the mud off my pants and jacket I found that my trip down the hill the other day had torn holes in both. Besides, the pirate coat had grown on me. It was warm and fit me, and those two qualities could reconcile me to a whole lot of brocade.

***

We stopped at a sporting goods store first. Zebulon bought ammo and made some orders. Somehow a discussion about shipping times turned into an argument with the clerk about customized holsters. Watching other people shop is just about the worst use of my time I can imagine so I looked around the store. Like the rest of Towenridge, it was . . . not normal. Where other outdoor stores might have stuffed bass or a rack of antlers on display, this store had jackalopes. Everywhere. Once I spotted one I realized there were dozens all over the store, hiding under racks of clothing, sitting on top of the basketball display, and an entire herd of them was arranged in frolicking poses in the camping section. Quite a bit of the merchandise was advertised as perfect for hunting cryptids. I was staring at a kayak hanging from the ceiling, checking for little antlers when someone came up to me.

“You started this, didn’t you?” The man said. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t tell from where. I didn’t think he was a protestor or a construction worker.

“I’ve never started anything,” I said.

“You let them out,” he said. Zebulon had stopped talking to the clerk and was watching us. I was glad because this man looked to be on the verge of a psychotic episode. I could overlook his bloodshot eyes and clammy skin as grief and fatigue. The way his eyes were vibrating in their sockets was a definitive sign.

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “This all would have happened whether I’d been here or not.”

“So it was the construction company?” He asked. “They dug something up.”

I’m not really good with people, but I was sensing trouble here.

“Did you know one of the people who was killed?” I asked.

“My brother,” he said. “He worked for Tony.” Now I knew where I’d seen him before. He was the older brother of the man whose memories I’d read in the morgue.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

“Are those things really bulletproof?” He moved closer to me as he spoke. I took a step away.

“They’re bullet resistant,” I said. “I think some of the locals are working on ways around that.” I can understand revenge. I even sympathize with it as long as I’m not the target. I tried deflecting him. “You might try asking at the Lutheran church. They’ve been having meetings about it.” To my relief, he thanked me and left. It might have had more to do with Zebulon looming behind me than with my way with people.

“Did you really send that guy to talk to our pastor about monster killing?”

“He looked like he needed spiritual guidance,” I said.

“I thought he was going to attack you,” Zebulon said.

“That, too.”

“You really need to get a gun.”

“What I really need is to get out of here,” I shot back. “I’ve never had this many people mad at me before.”

“Really?” Zebulon asked. I thought about it.

“Maybe once or twice, but it was during a war. That doesn’t count.”

I don’t know what I was expecting from a gun range, but it wasn’t what I got. It turns out you can show up with nothing, and they will rent you everything you need, from the gun itself to earplugs. Zebulon had me put them in before we entered the range. I was still able to hear with them in, everything was just muffled. Earl was there when we walked in. He was using the revolver I’d seen him with earlier while Zebulon had rented all sorts of different guns. Earl was doing some kind of drill, and when he finished he waved at us. Zebulon waved back.

“Are you really going to have him try that beast of yours?” Earl asked.

“Why not? There isn’t a wait today, and any other caliber will seem easier after that.”

“Why don’t you try a 9mm first,” Earl suggested to me. “They come in sizes that’ll fit your hands better. Besides, firing that thing is like burning money.” Zebulon sniffed.

“Next you’ll be telling him that real men only need six bullets.”

“My gun is a classic for a reason and the bullets don’t cost a dollar a piece.”

“Yeah, classic in that it belongs in a museum. How many times have you seen someone miss by a mile with it?”

“Only folks who were lousy shots to begin with,” Earl said. He pushed a button, and his target moved to the front of the range. His silhouette was missing its head. “Think I’ll have any trouble passing my skill test this year?”

“Fine, but we can’t all be as talented as you.”

I ended up trying a 9mm first. Once I got used to the feel of a gun in my hand target shooting was kind of fun. It was much easier for me to hold a handgun than a rifle, and handguns didn’t need to be sighted in. Earl was right, though. I could barely hold the Desert Eagle with both hands. If I’d tried to fire it, I’m sure I would have dropped it. By the end of the day, I wasn’t a great shot but I was consistently hitting the target. If I was attacked by a barn and had five minutes to prepare myself I could probably do some damage.

Afterwards Zebulon showed me how to disassemble and clean the guns.

“So, think you might try this again sometime?” He asked.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s strangely restful. Is this place popular?”

“Sure is,” Earl said. “Just about everyone in town has a firearm of some kind because of the monsters. The range is usually crowded.”

“What’s unusual about today?”

“Fiona comes in on Tuesdays,” he said. “She makes people . . . nervous.”

“Then why is she allowed in at all?”

“Oh, it’s not that she breaks the rules or anything like that,” Earl explained, “she’s just jumpy. And anyone who’s visited her home unannounced has had her point a shotgun at them. It sticks in your mind.”

“She also takes up more than one lane,” Zebulon said. “What she really wants is an obstacle course, but we don’t have one. Now that we’re out of targets and ammo shall we go party?”

“Are you two going somewhere?” Earl asked.

“Like you don’t know,” Zebulon said. “We’re going to the Battery.”

“What fun,” Earl said in a flat tone. “I happen to be free this evening. Mind if I tag along?”

“Go right ahead,” Zebulon said. “We don’t mind.”

“Are you following us?” I asked.

“You. I’m following you,” Earl said.

“Isn’t there anything more productive you could be doing? There’s a conspiracy to uncover after all.”

“That’s why I’m following you,” Earl said. “Maybe the next guy who attacks you will have the courtesy to explain himself before I have to shoot him.”

***

The Battery was a long single story building sandwiched between two hotels. Zebulon had his pick of parking spaces. He parked underneath a light. Before we got out of the truck, Zebulon put in contact lenses.

“I didn’t know you needed glasses,” I said.

“I don’t,” he said. “I’m completing my tourist disguise. You’re pretty observant, and, of course, every local can spot an Akeley or a Whateley a mile away, but for most people my eyes are the big giveaway.”

He blinked, and turned to me.

“I could never pull this off during the day, but what do you think?”

The contacts covered his entire eye. At a glance, he appeared to have normal blue eyes. On closer inspection, I could still see the black of his real eyes around the edges of the contacts.

“In a dark club it might work,” I agreed. “And anyone who notices something odd might just think you’re wearing novelty contacts.”

The club had no windows, and the front was painted black. Red bats were painted on the walls, and the sign was a red neon bat framed by bats stylized to look like lightning.

“Are there bats inside?” I asked.

“Some of the customers are batty,” Zebulon said. “And anything you order will have a bat on it somewhere, but there are no live bats.”

“Good.”

The doorman didn’t like my ID. It took some work to convince him to let me in, and in the end Earl had to vouch for me.

“If anyone needed a fake ID it’s you,” Earl said after he looked at it. He had added a cowboy vest and a scarf to his ensemble. I had no idea if that was his idea of club clothing or if everyone wore costumes in this place. If they did my pirate coat wouldn’t seem so out of place.

“There’s nothing wrong with my ID,” I said. “He should be used to odd things if he lives here.”

“He might not,” Zebulon said. “Most of the motel staff live near the base. Not to mention, most of the patrons are posers. You might be the first tri-centenarian he’s met.”

“Whatever. What do we do now?”

“You and Earl get a table near the stage, and I’ll get drinks.”

Despite the empty parking lot, the club was almost full. The patrons were in a mix of club clothes, business suits, and outdoor gear. There were a few people in getups so elaborate they couldn’t have been their normal clothes. If they were local fine, but I couldn’t imagine dragging plastic devil wings through an airport. Then again, most people would have taken a plane from Anaheim to Seattle and rented a car for the rest of the journey, so I probably wasn’t the best judge of what was too much hassle at the airport. Most of the people in fatigues or khakis were just drinking and talking in their own groups. Sparks left my shoulder and buzzed around the club. He bumped against the walls repeatedly then returned to my side.

“I wish we’d eaten before coming here,” I told Earl.

“They’ve got food,” he said. “I think they have menus at the bar.”

“I still wish I’d eaten before.”

“Here we go,” Zebulon said, bringing us drinks. “I got us some cookies too. They’re from my cousin’s bakery. They only add the frosting here.”

“Great,” I said. I grabbed a cookie and scraped the icing off. Earl stared at me suspiciously then did the same.

“Not a frosting fan?” Zebulon asked. “Neither am I.”

“I’m not a rodent fan either,” I said.

“Huh. Necromancy has practical uses. Who knew?” Earl said. “I’m glad I haven’t come here before.”

“The cookie is good,” I said.

“They are, aren’t they?” Zebulon agreed. “It’s funny. He was never interested in cooking growing up, but as soon as he graduated high school he decided that baking was his calling.” We ate and drank in peace for a few minutes. It didn’t last.

“Are you gentlemen from around here?” A woman in a khaki vest asked us. Like Earl, she had a light southern drawl. She had wavy blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and large dark eyes.

“I am,” Zebulon said, smiling up at her. “Why, do you need directions?”

“Something like that,” she said. “I’m Doctor Cassandra Cassidy, from the Interstitial Institute of Cryptogeography. We’re here to double check some readings our colleagues took and expand on their research.” Interstitial? I made a note to look that one up when I got back to the hotel. I’d thought I was familiar with all of the latest paranormal buzzwords.

“Good luck,” Zebulon said.

“What kind of research?” I asked. Maybe that would give me a clue what interstitial meant.

“We’re testing a sonic imaging device,” Dr. Cassidy said. “Despite testing well in the lab it has been less than reliable in the field. We came here to confirm our results with other equipment, but that isn’t what I want to ask about.”