Play Dead (36 page)
Victor’s BMW is too small for four adults and a dog, even a small one, and my van was acting up, so we ended up taking both. Eli rode with Victor and Sherwood came with me and Lou. Sherwood rolled down her window so he could stick his head out from his vantage point on her lap.
We didn’t speak for a while; the day was gray and overcast, with occasional hints of rain on the horizon. It didn’t help either of our moods, which weren’t too cheery to begin with.
I hadn’t seen Geoffrey in quite some time, although I knew Eli kept in touch with him. Geoffrey runs a small café in Half Moon Bay, forty minutes south of the city, and I hadn’t been down there since the problems with Christoph a few years ago. On the way down Sherwood asked if I thought he really could be of help.
“I’m inclined to think he could,” I said. “The question is, will he?”
“Why wouldn’t he? Didn’t he use to be a practitioner?”
“It’s hard to explain,” I said. “First, you know he doesn’t do magic anymore—nothing that has anything to do with talent. He just won’t.”
“Won’t or can’t?”
“That’s an open question.”
“Have you asked him?”
“Several times, in several ways. But he thinks in such a convoluted way that he’s incapable of giving a straight answer. I don’t think it’s on purpose; I think he’s just incapable of grasping simple concepts such as cause and effect. Or maybe I’m too simple to understand what he means. Either way, it’s frustrating, especially when you need to know about something.
“Second, you have to remember that what’s important to us isn’t necessarily important to him. If we tell him the world is about to end, he may well shrug and say that all things end eventually and that time is an illusion anyway, so what’s the problem?
“On the other hand, he could well divulge a key piece of information that he doesn’t even realize is important, or maybe he would help because it’s time for him to practice his piano and you won’t leave until he does.”
“He plays piano?”
“Oh yes. Jazz, but not very well. Apparently he could be a master musician if he wanted to, but there’s no point in it.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Depends. What day is it today?”
When I pulled up in front of Lucinda’s, Geoffrey’s café, Victor’s car was already there. Victor and Eli weren’t, so I guessed they were inside the café. Lou jumped out, excited, as soon as we pulled up—Geoffrey was a favorite of his, almost too much so. He fawns over Geoffrey like the man was made of bacon. It’s one of the things that makes me think there might really be something to Geoffrey, but at the same time it made me jealous in a petty way.
I’d never been inside the café—the last time I’d been here we’d talked at a table outside. Knowing Geoffrey, I expected the inside to be spare and minimal, like a Zen retreat. But it was nice—down to earth and homey, with large wooden tables and heavy straight-backed chairs. A few customers, locals, were seated in the front. Geoffrey was standing in the far corner next to an old upright piano, talking with Victor and Eli. Mostly with Eli; Victor was standing a little off to one side with a sour look on his face, body language disapproving and stiff.
Lou rushed across the room and threw himself against Geoffrey’s body, bouncing off him like a toy windup dog.
“Lou!” Geoffrey cried. “What a treat.” He ruffled Lou’s ears, then glanced over and saw me. “And Mason, too. Well, this is just lovely.”
“Geoffrey.”
Before I could say another word, he grabbed me by the hand and pulled me over to the piano.
“You have got to hear this. My first jazz composition—not in your league, of course, but it’s my first real one, if you know what I mean.”
He sat down, took a deep breath, and started to play, a little syncopated riff with his right hand, then threw in some sparse Monk-like chords with the left. In half a minute he was merrily pounding away, and it wasn’t half-bad. Clearly he’d been working on his chops these last couple of years. When he finished, he looked up for approval, beaming with pride like a child whose first performance has gone well.
If I hadn’t been familiar with his quirkiness, it would have been bizarre. We’d come here for help, time was running out, the world we knew might be about to end—at least for practitioners—and here I was critiquing his musical efforts.
But I did understand him, at least a little bit. Trying to push him onto the important topic would be worse than useless, but a little musical talk might put him in the right frame of mind. If there was such a thing.
“Not bad,” I said. “Great feel, and some interesting voicings. One little thing—right before the bridge, where you play that flat-nine chord? Instead of that, how about . . .”
I launched into a quick lesson on tritone theory and how certain substitution chords can not only add color but how the extensions should function to connect with the melody. Geoffrey sat rapt, ginger hair wisping around his head and his little mustache twitching like a rabbit’s nose. I actually got interested, but the reason we were here was always on my mind. Geoffrey asked a number of questions, quite sensible ones.
Victor was understandably impatient, but Eli listened to us quietly with apparent great interest. When a momentary pause in our discussion occurred, he judged the right moment had arrived and slipped in smoothly.
“You know, Geoffrey, I’m sure you realize we didn’t come all the way down here just to visit, no matter how delightful your company.” Geoffrey’s face fell.
“Yes, of course. I’m aware of that.” He sighed. “But it’s rare that I can get Mason’s input on my music.” He turned to me. “I do value your opinion, you know.” I tag teamed and hit him from the other side.
“Well, I appreciate that. But you know we have other concerns, things that are really important that you could help us with.”
“All things are important. In their own way.”
I hoped Eli wouldn’t let himself be drawn into a philosophical argument, but I needn’t have worried. He just smiled.
“Yes, I know,” he said, and waited patiently.
Geoffrey got the message, but he wasn’t giving up so easily.
“Well, if it’s important enough to discuss, we need tea.” He clutched Eli’s arm and steered him toward a table by the window, the rest of us trailing behind, rather hopelessly. “Sit, sit,” he said. “I have some fresh Keemun, a new batch, and it’s just wonderful.”
He skipped off behind the front counter and busied himself, fussing with water and cups and strainers. The four of us sat there morosely, staring at one another. Victor broke the silence.
“You hear that?” he asked, holding up a hand.
“Hear what?” I said, playing the unwitting straight man.
“That faint ticking—the sound of the last moments that we have to actually do something slipping away while we wait for tea. You do realize Jackie’s most likely going to try executing the final spell today—she could be preparing it this very moment.”
Geoffrey finally returned to the table carrying a large tray with cups and saucers and spoons, and in the middle a beautiful teapot with a Chinese dragon on the side. He insisted on serving us all, deliberately and carefully. Then he flitted around the table, straightening napkins and spoons. I didn’t see how Victor was going to be able to drink the tea with his teeth clenched so tightly. Eli just sipped his tea and regarded Geoffrey with a genial air. Eventually Geoffrey gave up and sat down with a sigh.
“All right,” he said in defeat. “Tell me why you’re here.” Eli cleared his throat.
“Well, first of all, have you had any headaches lately? Dizziness, or even passing out?” Geoffrey seemed to be considering it carefully.
“No,” he said. “Have you?”
“We all have,” Eli said. “Have you noticed anything unusual at all, though?”
“Ahh, I think I know what you mean. Yes, I felt something and wondered what it was. Is this why you’re here?”
Eli looked over at me. “Mason, why don’t you do the honors,” he said. “You’ve been closest to it.”
The last time I’d related a story to Geoffrey, he’d spent the entire time playing games with Lou, seemingly not listening at all. He had been, but it was disconcerting, and I expected more of the same this time.
But for once he paid close attention. Maybe I’d improved as a teller of tales, or maybe, for whatever reason, this particular subject interested him more. In any case, he listened and even interrupted a couple of times for clarification, just like any normal person would.
“Ah yes, Richter’s book. I spent a lot of time looking for it back when I was interested in such things. I think it’s a good thing I never found it. If I had, I might be a very different person today.”
This was a topic I knew Eli would have loved to pursue, but I recognized Geoffrey’s deflection strategy—to get us talking about other things instead of the subject at hand. Which was troubling in itself—he really is fundamentally kindhearted, and hates to disappoint people. Which probably meant that whatever he was going to tell us was going to be something we didn’t want to hear. Still, Eli forged onward.
“So you see our problem,” he said. “We can’t find this woman, so we can’t stop her from opening another rift—and the results of that will be catastrophic. At the very least, we may well all lose our powers.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” Geoffrey said.
“Yes,” Victor and I said in unison, on exactly the same page for once.
“Practitioner society has been built up over the centuries,” Eli said. “If it’s destroyed, it diminishes the world. Remember, you wouldn’t be the person you are today if not for your talent and the society you grew up in.”
“Oh, very true. I’d be someone else. Or would I? My circumstances wouldn’t be the same, of course, but is that what really matters?”
Eli held up his hand. “Be that as it may, can the side effects of opening the rift be countered, even if we can’t stop her from opening it?”
“Oh, I’m sure it could, if you knew how.”
“But we don’t,” I said. “Do you?”
Geoffrey got more and more uncomfortable. I tend to ask direct questions, and he tends to avoid answering them. Whether he can’t or just won’t is something I’ve never been able to make up my mind about.
“I don’t deal with matters of talent anymore; you know that.”
“Yes, you’ve made that clear. But
could
you, if you had to?”
could
you, if you had to?”
“ ‘Could’ is a tricky word.”
I had a moment of déjà vu. This was word for word the same conversation I’d had with him a few years ago. This time I’d learned there was no point in pursuing it, though. It would only go around in circles. I tried a different tack.
“Well, if you were us, and wanted to prevent this, what avenues would you explore?”
“But I’m not you. So how can I answer that?”
I gave up. We weren’t going to get anything useful here after all. But Victor, who hadn’t said a word up to now, surprised me by speaking up.
“How could Jackie pull this kind of thing off? Even with the book as a guide, it would take impossible amounts of power. Even a power object, if she had one, wouldn’t account for it.”
Geoffrey’s face brightened. Here was something he could talk about, something that wouldn’t result in his getting involved in the problem.
“Well, she has Richter’s book. And if I remember right, it’s supposed to include ways to harness natural forces. That’s what provides the power to institute the spells.”
“Of course,” said Eli. “There’d have to be a way to access huge amounts of power. But is that practical?” I expected Geoffrey to go off on the meaning of the word “practical,” but Sherwood interrupted.
“Well, she’s doing it, isn’t she?” she said. Geoffrey beamed at her like she was a clever student.
“Now, see, there’s a practical answer.”
“What kinds of forces, exactly?” Eli asked, trying to get Geoffrey to focus again. He waved his hands in a vague manner.
“Oh, you know. Wind. Water. A tsunami would be useful. A volcano would be ideal.”
“A tsunami,” Eli mused. “A very big wave.” Geoffrey said nothing.
“She’d need a lot of power for this last spell,” Victor said. “Someplace where there are really big waves. Huge, giant swells would do it. Somewhere close by.”
“Somewhere world famous for the power of its waves,” Sherwood added.
We all stared at one another with the slightest dawning of hope.
Mavericks.
TWENTY-TWO
EVERY YEAR, A WORLDWIDE SURFING COMPETITION is held at Mavericks. The combination of an odd underwater rocky shelf configuration and the long Pacific stretch the waves must cross to reach it make for an ideal surfing venue. During storms, waves can reach heights of fifty feet, and twenty-five is routine.
Sometimes the waves are even too strong, and the competition has to be postponed. They crash on the break-water with astounding force, plumes of spray shooting up hundreds of feet in the air. They wouldn’t be that strong on a normal day like today, but there was a stiff breeze blowing and the waves would still be impressive.
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