Moonheart (36 page)

"Very interesting. Was there anything else?"

"Not much. Sara Kendell is missing. She's involved with Hengwr's man— something to do with the cover-up at that restaurant last night. White still hasn't been able to get his hands on the files."

"We have Hogue's report."

"If we can believe it," Gannon replied. "Anyway, that's why I decided to pick up Tams. But now with Tucker on the scene at the House..."

"You did well to hold off on him. And how is our intrepid Inspector?"

"He spent a couple of hours in the House, then I followed him out to Tunney's Pasture. I've got a man on stand-by if he leaves headquarters again."

"Find out who he saw at the Pasture, and why."

"I'll get on it."

"And tell our Mr. White to keep us informed. I want a minute to minute update— no matter how trivial the information might seem to him. You might also see about Tams, now that the Inspector's left him on his own again."

Walters turned back to his weights, dismissing Gannon. The big man sat for a moment, then left the gym to carry out his orders.

Jack White wasn't going to like this. He was already nervous. When Gannon told him that Walters wanted a constant update on the situation, he was going to have a fit. But, Gannon thought, that was just too bad for him. You took your money and you took your chances with it. Of course it also helped to have that little matter of White's own indiscretions to hold over his head. He was still selling secrets. Only the man who paid him his money had changed.

"You know what this is beginning to become?" Madison asked.

Tucker shrugged. When he'd reached headquarters there'd been another message on his desk— right on top of a report that Hengwr's bone artifacts had disappeared from the museum last night— but this message was signed. He was to report to Superintendent Madison's office immediately.

"It's embarrassing, that's what it is," Madison finished.

"You gave me a week, Wally."

"A week? Christ, I don't know if I can hold out for another day. Word's starting to filter upstairs, John, and what's coming back isn't pretty. Williams is going to be asking for my resignation if this keeps up—
after
they've drummed you out."

Anger flickered in Tucker's eyes.

"I didn't set up this project," he said.

"I'm not talking about the project itself, John. I'm talking about a report that's sitting here on my desk. What was Warne doped up on, anyway? I'm talking about calling out a mop-up squad to clean up some leaves and shit on someone's front walk."

"I believe Constable Warne saw what he says he saw," Tucker replied evenly.

Madison said nothing for a long moment. Then he leaned back in his chair.

"I think you need a break, John."

"You're not taking me off this," Tucker said, his voice flat.

"You're not being logical," Madison countered.

"Logical?" Tucker broke in before the Superintendent could continue. "There's nothing logical about this operation, Wally, and you knew that before you ever assigned me to it. 'Provide security,' you said. Jesus Christ! It's been more like wet-nursing a bunch of assholes who wouldn't know their dicks from a hole in the ground. And security! I've busted my ass and this place is still about as secure as a cedar canoe that's just broken up in white water."

"John, listen to me—"

"No! You listen to me. These are your men I'm working with. And the operation itself..." He shook his head in disgust. "It goes a lot deeper than finding some spook who can read minds or some such shit. I tell you what, Wally. You find out for me how a nobody like Hogne got hired to head this project. You explain to me how Thompson died. And Hogue himself, for that matter. You tell me why Warne sticks to his story when he knows it sounds like the ravings of some doped-up junkie. You tell me where the evidence at the museum disappeared to. You tell me what that note on my desk is supposed to mean."

"John..."he began again.

"You gave me a week to clean this up, Wally. Hold the brass back for that week and I'll do just that. Have I ever let you down before?"

"No. But you've never gone off the deep end before, either."

"Do you really believe that?" Tucker asked softly.

He held Madison's gaze until the Superintendent looked away.

"No," Madison said slowly. "I don't believe it. Only..."

"Oh, I know what you're thinking," Tucker said. "You don't think it haunts
me?
You don't think
I
feel like I'm setting myself up for a nice long stay in the san'?"

"Okay," Madison said. "But the brass..."

"Stall them. You find out how Hogue got his job. Can you do that?"

"It's not in his file?"

Tucker shook his head. "Just his credentials and some background data. Nothing on how he was contacted, who sponsored him— that sort of thing."

"I'll find out. And in the meantime, what'll you be doing?"

"Me? First off, I'm going to have a talk with whoever's replacing Hogue. You got a name for me?"

Madison pushed aside some files and came up with a sheet that he handed to Tucker.

"Three of them," he said. "Two more researchers— one retired— and an ex-Air Force man who's been specializing in debunking UFO sightings."

"Are you serious?"

Madison smiled. "What's the matter? Don't UFOs fit in with your wizards?"

"Spare me."

"All right. Colonel Chambers isn't even being seriously considered. His name's there to keep the military brass happy."

"That leaves us with the two doctors— Gordon and Traupman. Traupman's retired, so—"

"Not so fast, John. If it was up to me, I'd take Traupman. He's unorthodox— which is what you need right about now. Someone a little twisted. Like yourself." The last was said with a grin. "He had somewhat of a reputation as a ghost hunter in his time. He's written three books— two treatises and one best-seller."

"What was that called?"

"
The Last Mistress
— shlock horror."

"Guy sounds perfect. Seriously, Wally..."

"I
am
being serious. From his file, Richard Traupman's our man. Gordon's a recent McGill graduate— a lot of talk, no experience."

"How come you've got his name then?"

"Williams has been priming him," Madison said.

"And you want Traupman. You think the Solicitor General's going to go for him when he's got his own boy?"

Madison shrugged. "He's leaning for Gordon, but I think I can convince him to go with Traupman."

Tucker thought about it for a moment. Which of them did
he
want to work with? Hard to say. All he really wanted was to be done with this project and get away for awhile. He glanced at his watch. Getting on to three. He wondered if Maggie was finished in court yet, then shook his head. First things first.

"Have you got addresses for them?" he asked.

"Dr. Gordon still lives in Montreal," Madison replied. "Dr. Traupman has a house in Alta Vista."

Tucker sighed. "So much for a late lunch with Maggie."

"Hey! Are you and Maggie getting back together?"

"Not exactly. But we're working on it." He frowned. "This guy Traupman. Does he know he's being considered for this position?"

"He was aware of the possibility when we were setting up the PRB."

"Okay. Guess I'll drop in on him and see what he's got to say about spooks and stiffs that turn into garbage. How's it going with the reporters?"

Madison shrugged. "We dummied up some witnesses for them— real talkers. It's keeping them busy."

"Well, that's something." Tucker got up and headed for the door. "You know, Wally," he added, pausing at the doorway to look back. "Sometimes it feels like we're living in the middle of a comic book. You know what I mean?"

"All too well."

"Thing I always ask," Tucker said, "is where's Superman when you need him?"

He let the door swing shut before Madison could reply.

In the Postman's Room, Jamie sat at Memoria's terminal, the screen blank as he rearranged for the hundredth time the artifacts that Sara had found. The bone disc and ring were gone, but everything else was still here. The painting was propped up on one side of his desk. On his blotter, laid out in a neat row, were the pouch and its contents. Fox's claw. Bundle of feathers. Threaded corn kernels. A rounded pebble. In a pile beside them were computer printouts detailing each Weirdin bone and the information that Tom had entered with them.

Closing his eyes, he leaned forward on the desk. In the hall outside his study, he could hear Blue explaining the workings of his rifle to Sally. "You might need to know," Blue was saying.

"I know how to shoot a rifle," Sally protested. "My dad taught me when I was seventeen. It's just that if I tried to fire that thing, it'd probably take my shoulder off. What're you doing with it anyway? I thought you told me you'd given up this kind of thing."

"Well, I did. Only you don't throw out something like this. I just keep it in the closet, you know. In case."

Neither of them needed to say in case of what.

Sighing, Jamie gathered up the artifacts and replaced them in their pouch. He picked up the painting and stared at it for a long moment. Looking at the incredible detailing of the brushstrokes, it was easier to believe that it was magicked into existence as Tom said it had been than that someone had actually sat down and painted it. Harper and shaman. Taliesin and... it took him a moment to remember the Indian's name. A'wa'rathe.

Taliesin didn't look like a threat— not in the painting. And he certainly didn't resemble that creature at the door this morning. Tom's words came back to him. "Every rose hides a thorn..."

Wherever Sara was, he hoped it was a million miles from the harper. Sara. Not knowing what was happening to her was what tore him up the most. With the shape Tom was in... He'd been going to find her and...

"Any improvement?" he called to Blue.

"Nothing yet, Jamie."

The biker and Sally were sitting in the hall. From where they sat they had a clear view of both the Postman's Room and Gramarye's Clover beside it where they'd laid Tom out on the big four-poster bed. Jamie stood up from his desk and, stretching his shoulder muscles, walked to the other room to have a look for himself. The wound on Tom's face was mostly white scar tissue now. With the blood swabbed away, he appeared to be merely sleeping, not mortally hurt as he'd seemed when Jamie first found him. His breathing was steady, but there was still no color in his face. It was a dead man's face, Jamie thought uncomfortably— a mask of white skin stretched taut over his brow and cheekbones.

Jamie looked down at Tom for a long time, then slowly turned and left the room. At his desk again, he activated Memoria's viewscreen and punched in a request for new data. The computer hummed as it gathered the requested information, spitting it out in neat lines on the screen. He had the key now, Jamie thought. Tom had told him that much. It was there in the weirdin. Now all he had to do was find the right combination of symbols that would unlock his understanding of it all. Shouldn't be hard. He'd already been at it for thirty-odd years. He had a head start, hadn't he?

Frowning, Jamie returned his concentration to the matter at hand. He felt the walls of the room, the entire bulk of Tamson House, lean closer to study it with him. It was a queer, but comforting sensation.

Traupman's house was a plain red brick bungalow, long and rambling. The front yard was cut off from Chomley Crescent by a neatly trimmed cedar hedge, and the lawn between it and the house would have put a golf course to shame. Tucker pulled his Buick into the lane, parked it behind an '81 VW Rabbit, and admired the yard. The flowerbeds alongside the house were bare now in preparation for the winter. Leaning up against the wall of the house were wooden covers for the shrubberies that stood guard on either side of the front door.

Whatever else might be said of him, Tucker decided, Traupman was an organized man.

He met Tucker at the door and his appearance strengthened the Inspector's earlier thought. At sixty-six, Richard Traupman still had a full head of hair and a thick walrus moustache that hung over his mouth. The perfect fit of his tweed jacket and trousers made Tucker feel like a cheap hood.

"Good of you to see me on such short notice, Dr. Traupman," he said. "I hope I haven't disturbed you?"

"Not at all, Inspector. Come in. And please, call me Dick."

Tucker nodded and stuck out his hand. "John Tucker," he said. Traupman's handshake was firm.

They went through a short hall into a living room that was more a combination library/study than a place to receive guests. Floor to ceiling bookcases lined one wall. Beside them was a broad government-styled oak desk, beside it a battery of file drawers. A worktable cut the room in two. Spread across it were what looked like the pages from a book, dozens of neat stacks of them.

"A book of verse," Traupman said. "I decided to cut down costs and collate it myself. Do you read poetry, John?"

"Not so's you'd notice. Nice place you've got here."

"Thank you. Please have a seat. Can I get you a drink? Or some coffee?"

"Coffee'd be fine."

While he was out of the room, Tucker sauntered over to the worktable and had a look at the poetry. He read a line here and there, but couldn't make a lot of sense out of any of it. That was the trouble with poems. It seemed you had to have a doctorate just to understand the references. Still. Some of it had a nice ring to it.

Nice. Yeah. If you knew what the hell it meant.

"Been doing this long?" he asked, when Traupman returned.

"The poetry? Yes. But mostly for myself and what friends I have left. This is my first published effort, self-published at that, as the editor who bought
The Last Mistress
wouldn't touch it. He wants the new novel that's been overdue since September. I realize I've been lax about it, but at my age one learns to take things as they come. It seemed more important to see these poems in print. They, unlike a novel, seem a more fitting epitaph."