Moonheart (47 page)

"If you want to follow the Way, you must accept this trial. That is the truth, and no mystery," he said as earnestly as possible. "Decide what it is you want and whatever you decide, I will help you however I can."

For long moments Sara said nothing. She kept her back to him and stared out across the dark ocean. She felt the tension building up in her, muscles knotting in her stomach and shoulders. Please, she said silently. Do more than just sit there.

Then slowly Taliesin arose and came to her. He put his arms around her and she shivered, moved in close.

"I don't know what I want," she said. "I want you. I want to know that feeling again— of being a... a moonheart. But I don't want to give up everything I am for it. Jamie. Blue. My old life. That's all part of me still— do you understand, Taliesin? There is a whole lifetime of things and people that made me what I am and I can't just turn my back on them either.

"And then there's the... demon. The whatever-it-is. If it's there— if it's been set up to be my trial, then I don't think I want anything to do with your magics or your Old Ones. Mal'ek'a has killed people. It's going to kill more. Your Old Ones shouldn't play with people's lives that way. It's just not right."

Taliesin stroked her hair with one hand, held her tight with his other arm.

"Don't think for a moment," he said. "Set it aside."

"I'm just so confused."

"You must make your decision with a clear head, my moonheart. If you want to go back to your own time, we'll go back together. There will be no headaches this time, either. We'll step across the years with harpmagic, as gently as a soft breeze."

Sara nodded against his shoulder.

"I want to think about it for awhile," she said, pulling away from him. "No. I'm not mad at you any longer. You go on inside. I won't be long."

"Sara..."

She went up on her tiptoes and gave him a kiss. "I'll be okay. Honestly."

He watched her go, indecision making a jumble of his thoughts. Then he told himself: The choice is hers. At least give her the time to make it. He wondered at this night's talk with her, what his grandsire would make of it, how it would affect the outcome of her trial. For he meant what he'd told her. He would help her all he could, even if it meant forgoing the Summer Country for all time.

Truly?
he seemed to hear his grandsire ask.

She will show you still,
he replied.
There are strengths within her that have no boundaries. You will see.

Aye,
his grandsire replied.
We will see.

Taliesin entered the tower and closed the door, May'is'hyr and Hagan looked up at his entrance but, after glancing at his face, said nothing. He crossed the room and took his harp from its case and brought it to the hearth.

He ran his fingers down his harp's strings, adjusting one or two of the tuning pegs with the brass key that hung from a leather thong about his neck. When he was satisfied he began to play, a slow sad air. Neither Mayis nor Hagan knew its name, but they had heard him play it many a time before.

Sara heard the harping as she walked amongst the dark spruce. The night was different tonight— not filled with spirits and movements as it had been yesterday. She hummed the tune Taliesin played, naming it to herself. Lorcalon. Moonheart.

It sounded so sad tonight. Shaking her head, she plunged on into the forest, calling softly: "Pukwudji! Pukwudji?"

She listened, strained her eyes looking through the dark trees, and reached out with that quiet she'd discovered inside herself— her taw. Then she went on.

By the Bearstone of May'is'hyr, a man stood in a cloak of oak leaves and mistletoe, a man who sometimes wore the shape of a stag. He listened to the tune his grandson played, heard the soft call of Sara's voice in the forest, and nodded to himself. As he turned to go, the wind spoke to him, in a voice he alone could hear.

Gwydion,
it said.
What are you doing here once more, so far from your own shores?

Waiting,
he replied.
Waiting to see old wrongs righted.

Then he was gone, and the wind sighed in a voice that only trees understood.

10:00, Thursday evening.

Superintendent Wallace Madison sat at his desk, chewing on the end of a government issue ballpoint pen and wondering where you started cleaning up a mess like this. Spread across his desk were all the progress reports on Project Mindreach— about as confusing a collection of information as he'd ever run across. The initial thrust of the operation had never even gotten off the ground. And now... now the whole project had fallen to pieces around his ears.

First Hengwr had vanished, then Foy— their only leads. They'd lost Paul Thompson to some boogieman, Dr. Hogue to God knew what. Sara Kendell had vanished. And now both Tucker and Dr. Traupman. Not to mention this other report. There was some kind of force field surrounding Tamson House, denying entry to the squad he'd sent down when Tucker's car had been found abandoned outside.

He shook his head. Jesus, Tucker. I can't give you a week anymore. I can't even give you another hour. But where the hell
are
you?

He'd been called in to see the Solicitor General this afternoon and told in no uncertain terms that Project Mindreach was being scrapped. There would be no discussion. It was to be dismantled as soon as possible, all personnel being transferred immediately to new positions. Preferably to positions where they would have no contact with one another.

What was
that
supposed to mean?

Granted, they'd been butting their heads against the wall for the past few months, but now, just when something was breaking, why was the operation being scrubbed? What about Thompson's death? What about Tucker and Traupman? Was he just supposed to pretend that they'd never existed? And then there was the force field around Tamson House. The implications of its existence put a whole new relevance on the project's importance. But when he'd tried to bring that up with Williams, he'd been cut off before he could even begin.

"Let's understand one thing, Superintendent," Williams had said. "Project Mindreach is finished. In fact it might just as well never have existed." He'd lifted his hand to forestall a further interruption. "There's no need to cry 'cover-up,' Madison. It has simply been decided that we've wasted enough of the taxpayer's money on this ill-fated project. There is nothing covert involved, I can assure you."

"But I've got a man out there..." Madison began.

"Then I suggest you bring him in."

Madison could feel his blood pressure rising. "Sir," he began again. "If you would just reconsider for a moment this new information I have—"

"No, Superintendent.
You
reconsider. How do you like the Northwest Territories?"

"I..."

"If you haven't got this whole affair cleaned up by tomorrow morning, 9:00 A.M. sharp, I'll have you transferred out to the most godforsaken post we have up there. Do I make myself clear, Superintendent?"

Too clear. But Madison had let it lie. He insisted on having his orders in writing. Once he had them, he'd return to headquarters to begin dismantling the operation. But the whole while he took it apart, half his mind was caught up with Tucker's disappearance.

"Damn!" he cried, snapping his pen in half. He stared at the two jagged ends and pitched them across the room.

"Sir?"

He looked up to see Constable Collins standing in the doorway of his office, his arms weighted down with a carton filled with files.

"Where do you want these, sir?"

"Against the wall, Dan." Madison waited until Collins had deposited his burden, before adding: "Anything new?"

Collins shook out a cigarette and lit it before replying. "Nothing, sir," he said. "Not a damn thing. I did a follow-up on that number you gave me. Margaret Finch hasn't been seen since she left the courthouse on Nicholas Street late this afternoon. One of her co-workers heard her tell a cabbie she wanted to go to Patterson and Bank. That's where "

"Tamson House is," Madison finished. So they had Maggie, too. "Did you check Traupman's place again?"

"He hasn't turned up. But that's not too unusual, according to his next-door neighbor. She told me that he doesn't keep very regular hours."

Madison nodded. "Thanks, Dan. Is that it for the files?"

"There's one more box."

"Well, when you've brought it up you can go."

"Sure." Collins took a long drag and exhaled, blue smoke wreathing his face. "What about the Inspector, sir?"

"What about him?"

"Well... I mean, aren't we going to do anything about what happened to him?"

"What would you suggest?" Damn, Madison thought. He was beginning to sound too much like Williams.

Collins studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "I'll get that last box," he said.

"Dan?"

"Yeah?"

"They've closed the book on Tucker— that's all I know. That doesn't mean I won't be doing what I can for him. And that goes for anyone who wants to lend a hand."

Collins nodded. "I understand, sir... I could use a ride home if you're going my way. I live on Elgin. If you take the Driveway up by the Canal... it's a nice ride."

Right by Tamson House, Madison thought. He waved at the paperwork on his desk. "This'll take me a couple of hours," he said.

"Hey. I'm in no hurry. I've got a few things to clear up before my transfer comes through anyway."

"I'd appreciate the company," Madison said.

He nodded to Collins as the constable left, then returned to stare at the files on his desk. Well, here was one for the books. Deskbound Madison hitting the streets again. He drew open a drawer on the left side of his desk and took out a .38 Smith & Wesson in a worn shoulder holster. Christ, he hoped he wouldn't have to use this thing. Then again, considering the bizarre turns this project had taken recently, the gun probably wouldn't be much use even if he
had
to use it.

"Big place," Madison remarked.

He and Collins stood in Central Park looking at Tamson House. It was just going on twelve-thirty, Friday morning. There still was no word on Tucker, Traupman or Maggie. Nothing on any of them.

"
Weird
place," Collins said. He lit up a fresh Pall Mall from the end of his butt, then ground the butt under his heel. "Not a light on. Nothing. Well, Superintendent?"

"Call me Wally. I've got a court order here from Judge Peterson to search the premises. If no one answers..."

"Yeah. Well, no one's answered. Trouble is I don't think even a court order's going to make much difference. We... ah... already gave it a try earlier this evening— when you sent me down to check out the Inspector's car. But I'm willing to give it another go if you are."

Madison shrugged. "We've come this far. What've we got to lose?" Crossing the park, they made for the House. All we need, Madison thought, is for someone to come by as we're going in. Williams would have his balls if he found out. But there was no way he was leaving Tucker in there.
If
Tucker was even in there.

"Take a look, Superin... ah, Wally."

Collins shone a pencil flashlight in a window. Madison pushed up against the sill. The .38 was uncomfortable under his arm. His sports-coat wasn't tailored to fit the gun and, even with his jacket open under his overcoat, it was still a tight fit. His hip was bothering him tonight, and his cane was getting in his way... Peering inside, he tried to make out the features of the room, but the flashlight's thin beam didn't pick up anything.

"Room's empty," he said. "Not even any furniture."

"They're all like that," Collins said. "At least on the bottom floor. But they're not just empty. It's more like there's nothing there."

"And this 'force field'?"

"Watch."

Collins moved to the nearest door, pulling a jackknife from his coat pocket.

"These're old doors, see?" he said. "All you've got to do is slip the blade in between the door and the frame... like this. Hook it behind the bolt— they're angled on these locks— and pull the blade forward."

He finished the movement, tugging on the doorknob as he did. The door didn't budge.

"They've got it bolted on the inside," Madison said.

Collins didn't reply. He shone the penlight on the end of his knife's blade to show a black scoring on the steel.

"That...?" Madison began.

"Wasn't there before. Something burned it. I could feel a jolt go up my arm when I was working the blade in."

"How about the windows?"

"Same thing happens with the latches."

Madison shook his head. "This just doesn't make any sense. How can there be nothing inside all these rooms? John— Inspector Tucker— described the place to me. Said it was loaded with antiques, books, furniture..."

"There's nothing there now." Collins shook out and lit a new cigarette. "We've got ourselves one weird problem here."

"But a... force field? It's like something out of a science fiction movie, for Christ's sake!"

Collins bent down and hefted a good-sized rock. "What do you think?" he asked, indicating the window.

Madison didn't even stop to think about it. "Break it," he said.

Taking off his coat, Collins wrapped it around the stone to muffle the sound of the impact somewhat. The glass didn't break with the first blow. A star of fine lines appeared where he'd hit the window, with long cracks emanating across the glass. He drew his arm back for a second blow, then paused, staring at the glass.

"Je-
sus!
"

"What is it?" Madison demanded.

He shone the narrow beam of the penlight onto the window and felt his stomach muscles tighten. The crack lines in the glass were withdrawing back to the point of impact. As they watched, the cracks smoothed and the window became whole again. The two men stared at each other, neither quite willing to admit to what they'd seen.