Tesser: A Dragon Among Us (A Reemergence Novel) (22 page)

Sgt. Henry Spooner

Spoon had gotten into the habit of having his M4 in the front of his unmarked cruiser. It rested on the floor in front of the passenger seat, just under his unworn sports jacket.
 
It was against department policy and could get him fired if he was caught with it as such. He kept a loaded magazine in the weapon, but no round in the chamber.

It was irrational how he felt, and he knew it. His behavior was illegal and more than a little crazy.

I am scared, and I don't know why. I haven't been this nervous since my first deployment. I am a combat veteran and an experienced Boston Police Officer. I have been shot at, bombed; I’ve flown in planes and helicopters into combat, arrested armed felons. I've been through some shit. I am analytical and rational, and here I am, sitting in my cruiser, staring at an expensive home in the Back Bay, waiting for either of two strange young men or one strange old man to come out, not for a valid police reason, but because I'm fairly sure one of them is possessed by the Devil. Or something worse. I've lost my shit.

Spoon downed a mouthful of Dunkin's. On the seat perched above the M4 was a full Box o' Joe and a bag of sugar and creamers, all strictly for his own use. It was midday and the last of the summer city heat was fading away. Spoon had his cruiser's window down and was letting the fresh air in to cool off. The back of his dress shirt was slick with sweat from the late summer sun.
 

The young man Spoon had seen in the alley with Tesser the night of the strange occurrence had led him to this massive, brown, brick home in the upper crust neighborhood of Boston. Spoon had seen him wandering in the Back Bay near Berklee College of Music and tailed him here to this fancy home. He'd seemed ordinary as he walked, giving away none of the strange power Spoon felt he possessed.
Knew
he possessed.

Commoveo.

I'll never forget that word.
I know what happened in that alley was supernatural. I know it. I could feel it in my bones, in the pit of my stomach. I still feel it, even now, weeks later. I checked out that damn alley for hours. Four times now, at different times of the day, in different kinds of weather, and not once has the wind swirled the way it did when those two were there. Not once did it feel the same as when those two were there. Maybe it's that sixth sense they say cops have? Maybe I'm tapping into a subconscious awareness of God, or the Devil? It's like a compulsion I can't shake.

And where the FUCK did that tree come from?

A strange looking birch tree had appeared in the front yard of the brownstone Tesser and the young man had been living in together. It was weird enough that, after the alley confrontation where the debris flew about as if possessed, the two had simply moved in together as if all were utterly and completely mundane and normal. And then suddenly, this tree appeared. Fully grown, overnight. No gardening crew brought it there, no grounds workers dug the hole and planted it, and the two younger men acted as if it had been there all along. The older man, however… he seemed to act somewhere between scared and excited that the tree had appeared.

He looked surprised by it. And I'll be damned, but I think he talks to it.

The old man, who appeared a little worse off each time he stepped out of the home, often sat on the stoop when the two other men had left and gazed at the tree as if he had no idea what to make of it. When he took a seat at the top of his stone stairs, he would sip at a cup of fine china, filled with what Spoon assumed was Earl Grey tea, and would mutter to himself, looking to the tree for answers. Sometimes, the old man would respond as if the tree were talking back.

Of course when I tried to walk by innocently, he stopped talking to the tree. Strange thing that was. A crazy person wouldn't stop taking to his tree friend. A sane person with something to hide goes silent. What weirds me out even worse than an old man talking to a tree that apparently teleported into his yard, is that it wouldn't strike me in the least if the fucking tree was talking back to him. What passes for weird in my imagination lately is starting to alarm me.

The tree had very few leaves, but more and more every day. They were appearing mysteriously and haphazardly. No buds, just fully grown leaves appearing on branches overnight. It was as if the impending autumn had come early, and in reverse.

Such weird shit is going on. And who the hell is this Doyle character? Sketchy old fuck.
 

The old man had been easy to investigate. With an address in hand, finding out the owner of the home had been basic investigation. A Mister Mycroft Rupert Doyle was the owner of the home. Originally a British citizen, according to some ICE records he dredged up, Mr. Doyle came over to the States sometime in the late 1940's a few years after the end of the Second World War. That's when things went amiss.
 

The math doesn't add up on this guy. If he came over as a young man in the 1940's, and he was of an age where he could buy a house at that time, that'd put him at well over 90 years old. He looks like he's getting up there, but he can't be over 70. It doesn't add up at all. Doesn't pass the sniff test.

Spoon finished his paper cup of coffee and poured another from the spout in the box.
 

My Captain thinks I'm sitting here in the hopes that I'll find the second attempted rape suspect. I sold him on the idea that Tesser might be tracked down by the guy, and that I wanted to tail him until I felt he was safe. Of course, now all I want to do is figure out what the hell happened in that damned alley. The rapist… to hell with him. He learned his lesson. So did his pal. Tesser was all the justice those two pricks needed. All I want to know now is what the hell is up with these people. Are they dangerous? I can't put my finger on the truth of it all.

Not yet.

Spoon's department phone rang. He picked it up off the seat from its hiding spot under the box of coffee and looked at it. He couldn't tell who was calling inside the department, but he knew it wasn't from his district. He answered it.

"Sergeant Spooner."

"Henry. Hey, buddy; it's Paul. How you been?"
 

Paul.
The SWAT officer Spoon knew from the Dorchester raid. That seemed like forever ago. "Paul, man, I'm good. Busy trying to track down my errant alleyway pervert. When these pricks go to ground they go deep, my friend."

"No doubt, brother, but hey, they gotta come up for air sometime, right? Speaking of which, I got a guy who just walked in here at D4 on Harrison saying he's your man. Turned his own ass in. Guilt is just tearing this prick up. He matches the video frame we've got on him. You should probably come over. He hasn't lawyered up yet. Says he wants to confess. Figured I'd call you direct."

Fuck me in the ass. Shit.
"Yeah, buddy, that's great news. I'm on a stakeout not too far from there. Gimme an hour or two. Give him a cup of shitty department coffee, a roll of BPD sandpaper, and watch him get the shits. That'll keep him busy 'til I get there."

Paul laughed. "You bet, buddy. Congrats on the close. See you soon."

"You bet." Spoon hung up the phone and immediately started hammering away at the steering wheel of his department car with his fist. He pounded on it until his hands hurt.

"Fuck!" He roared into the air, startling some birds and a few people walking by on the sidewalk nearby. "Sorry, bit my tongue," Spoon said out the car door. They gave him a conciliatory face and kept walking. Everyone knew the pain of a bitten tongue. It created immediate sympathy and frequently led to a quick dismissal. He'd used that excuse several times in the past to encourage strangers to overlook a slip in language. Spoon backhanded the headrest of the passenger seat a few times for good measure once they were out of earshot.

This fucks everything up, closed case or not. A walk-in suspect doesn't make me look like a good cop. But I'll take the closed case. I'll need another reason to keep an eye on this house though. Something legit. Maybe I can turn the Captain onto Tesser as a suspect in something. But shit, he seems like a decent person. Ah fuck, I can't do that. What the hell am I doing?

Spoon backhanded the headrest once more and heard something crack inside the seat. He downed his fresh, still too-hot cup of coffee and tossed the empty paper receptacle out the window, his mouth and throat burning. Littering in the rich neighborhood made him feel better. Spoon started the cruiser and slid the shifter into drive. He pulled out into the street and made his way towards Harrison, where the District Four Headquarters was.

I'll need to stow the M4 away in the trunk before I get there. I don't need that kind of shit.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Matty Rindahl

Matty was driving to work in late September.

Cowardice is a terrible thing. Matty had picked up her phone ten times a week for three weeks since the night she'd had with Tesser, each time bringing up the dialer and each time not having the courage to hit 'call.' Of course, she wasn't even calling Tesser. She didn't have his number. She was only attempting to call Alexis.

Because Alexis was still seeing Abe and Abe could get in touch with Tesser.

But calling Alexis meant having to
tell
Alexis that she liked Tesser enough that she needed Abe's number. And, of course, getting Abe's number meant she'd then have to call Abe (which, in and of itself, was tantamount to climbing Mt. Everest) and then having to ask dear Abe for Tesser’s phone number.

And, sweet baby Jesus, that would mean having to talk to Tesser himself. Matty couldn’t even imagine a scenario where that conversation went well for her.

Hello, Tesser. I just wanted to call and tell you that I haven't really stopped thinking about you; and that I really enjoyed our sex, and that it was pretty much life-changing; and that I haven't stopped thinking about you; and that I really wish I'd gotten your last name because it's really hard for me to imagine us married when I don't know your last name; and that I still have that song stuck in my head from the club when you leaned in and we kissed; and that I want your babies, but I can't have babies; and that I missed you; and that I was wondering what you were doing this weekend because I think you should take me out for a cup of coffee, or tea, or a scone, or whatever it is I can ask you to take me out for, because I really want to see you again and I'm not sure I'll ever build up the courage to ask anyone else to kiss me.

Ever again.

Matty knew why she was scared to call. Being vulnerable wasn't her strong suit. Neither was taking big risks.

She parked her car in the parking spot that had her employee number on it and locked the door with her key fob as she walked to the building. The day was beautiful. Cool crisp skies and a gentle early autumn breeze had cut away the humidity that had plagued the New England summer. The sun had toned down its assault on Matty's skin as well, and she walked into work with a forced bounce in her step.
Fake it 'til you make it, as Alexis would say.

She pulled open the glass doors of the main building and passed through the security corridor. Going to work here was like traveling on an airplane only worse. Shoes came off, jackets came off, and everything passed through an X-ray detector. The security personnel all carried pistols, wore bulletproof vests and looked like soulless automatons. It was worse trying to leave work. No one wanted to bring anything in, so they focused on people trying to bring things out. Everyone was subject to search at any time. It was part of your lengthy employment contract.

The nameless security officer who intently looked at the hidden x-ray screen paid her no attention. She might've been the President, or a dancing clown, but he didn’t care. His sole concern was her briefcase and her laptop. The armed guard awaiting her on the other side of the metal detectors wanded the areas where she was wearing metal, and after making a sour face at her for wearing a belt with a metal buckle, he allowed her to gather her things and head to her office.