The Eye of the Moon (16 page)

‘Oh, they’re everywhere,’ said the monk matter-of-factly. ‘I’ve recently infiltrated a gang of vampires to see if I can find out the whereabouts of the Bourbon Kid.’

‘Really? How have you managed that? Isn’t it rather a dangerous thing to do?’

Peto patted his chest. ‘This here blue stone has wonderful powers, many of which I’m sure I have yet to learn, but one of which allows me to walk among the undead without detection.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Cromwell, shaking his head in bewildered awe as he sat back down in his vast leather chair. ‘But why would you come back here to find the Bourbon Kid? Are you looking for revenge? Because from what I hear about that fellow, he’s best avoided.’

‘I want to cure him.’

Cromwell couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. ‘Cure him? Of what? Killing people? I believe the cure for that is the electric chair!’

‘Believe it or not,’ said the monk, unable for a moment to look the Professor in the eye, ‘I actually have a tiny amount of sympathy for the guy. He had it tough as a kid, from what I understand. I believe I can cure him of the disease that makes him kill without reason. Most of all, I want to look him in the eye and know that deep down he feels some remorse for what
he’s done. He has the blood of Ishmael Taos in his veins, so he can’t be all bad. I believe he must have a good heart beating somewhere beneath all that hatred and anger.’

Cromwell raised his eyebrows just for a second. ‘Well, good luck with that,’ he said passing the book he had just picked out over to the monk. ‘Here, you really should read this. It explains in great depth the curse of the mummy that escaped from here last year.’

‘Rameses Gaius?’

‘The very same.’

‘In this book?’

‘Oh yes. Rameses Gaius was an immensely powerful Egyptian ruler mainly due to the things he learned from using that blue stone you’re wearing.’

‘So it’s true? He was the original owner of the Eye of the Moon?’

‘No. That would have been Noah.’

‘You’re fuckin’ bullshittin’ me, surely?’

The Professor sighed. ‘What is it about that stone that gives Tourette’s Syndrome to everyone who wears it?’

‘Fucked if I know,’ Peto shrugged. ‘But seriously – Noah?’

‘Well, according to that book anyway,’ the Professor continued. ‘Take it away and read it. Since you have already made it clear that you think
Weekend at Bernie’s
is a documentary rather than fiction, you shouldn’t have too much trouble believing half the stuff you read in there.’ Cromwell paused, lost in thought for a moment, before addressing Peto again. ‘Now come, I’ll show you the Egyptian Tomb display from which Gaius escaped. On the night he disappeared, two of my security guards were murdered. One of them called me in the middle of the night to say he’d seen something suspicious, and I regret to say that before he could tell me what he’d seen, I heard him being killed.’

‘No shit? By the mummy?’

‘Actually, I’ve a sneaking suspicion that he was killed by Beethoven.’

Peto frowned. ‘Beethoven? The Saint Bernard?’

Cromwell was used to dealing with morons, but this was intolerable. Although Peto was generally pretty smart, he clearly watched too many shit films, and seemed to live his life away from Hubal on the basis of what he had seen in them.

‘No, you fool,’ he snapped. ‘Beethoven
the composer?

Peto slapped his forehead. ‘Of course. That makes perfect sense. Why on earth would I suspect a dog, when clearly a nineteenth-century composer was responsible?’

Cromwell paused for thought. Put like that, maybe he had been a little quick to judge the monk. An apology of sorts was in order. He rose from his chair and said, ‘Here, let me get you some coffee on the way, and perhaps something to eat?’

‘Thanks,’ said Peto, tucking the book under his arm and standing up. ‘There is something else you might do for me, though.’

‘Name it,’ Cromwell smiled, heading for the door.

‘You know anywhere I can get my hands on a copy of
Weekend at Bernie’s
2?’

Breakfast cooked by someone else was one of the few things in life that Sanchez cherished. The Olé Au Lait was renowned as the best place in Santa Mondega to get a decent fried breakfast. Even better, the food was brought over to you by the delightful young waitress, Flake. Today she had even been kind enough to place a newspaper by the side of Sanchez’s plate. He knew, though, that she treated him well only because there were no other customers in the café at that time of day – eight o’clock – anyway. The rest of the city folk were probably all hungover; in fact, Sanchez was one of the only early risers in the place.

‘I’ll have a good tip for you later,’ said Sanchez, winking at Flake. The sweet young brunette winked back at him but said nothing, heading back behind the counter to wait for the next order. Sanchez was moderately sure, too, that as she walked away from his table she was deliberately wiggling her butt for his benefit. So he made a point of staring at it, just to be sure her efforts didn’t go to waste.

When he’d finished staring, he looked down at the items on his table. A rapidly cooling cup of coffee that had arrived ten minutes before the food he’d ordered, a newspaper and an oversized white plate crammed with bacon, sausages, fried eggs, giant mushrooms, grits and home fries. Where to start?

He began with a swig of coffee, then picked up his knife and fork and dived into the nearest sausage. Picking it up on the fork he took a giant bite out of one end.
Mmm delicious,
he thought.

The front page of the newspaper had a rather dull article about a local priest being involved in some sort of choirboy-buggery
scandal. An all too familiar story, and one that held no interest for the likes of Sanchez. Like many tabloids, this one featured a photograph of a nubile young woman on page 3 of every edition. He turned the front page over, ready to feast his eyes.

And when he did, he damn near choked on his sausage. As his jaw dropped open, the half-chewed bits fell out and onto the table next to his plate. Staring back at Sanchez from page 3 of the
Santa Mondega Universal Times
(or
SMUT,
as the locals preferred to call it) was a picture of Jessica. Fully clothed, mind you, but it was definitely her. When he looked more closely, he saw that it wasn’t so much a photo, but a photo of a painting of her, with a caption underneath:

Missing. $500 reward for information leading to whereabouts.

Shocked, the bartender looked around him suspiciously. He was still the only customer in the Olé Au Lait, so it was a safe bet that no one had seen his sausage fall out. Apart from Rick, the chef behind the counter.

‘You okay, Sanchez?’ he called over. His big floppy white chef’s hat was hanging over the front of his face, but in any case he bore an uncanny resemblance to the Swedish chef from
The Muppets.
He had big bushy eyebrows, tiny, almost invisible, beady eyes and a thick brown moustache. ‘Something wrong with your sausage?’

‘Nah,’ Sanchez shook his head. ‘Just felt a sneeze comin’ on, is all. Seems to have passed now.’

‘Okay.’ Rick nodded, and turned back to the paper he had spread on the counter.

Sanchez returned to his own newspaper. In the picture, Jessica was wearing an entirely black outfit, which, from what the bartender could recall, was the only outfit she actually owned. The brief wording in the copy printed beneath the picture requested that anyone who knew her whereabouts should contact the paper. There was no mention of who had placed the advertisement, not who was offering the reward.
Now Sanchez was not averse to getting his hands on the five hundred dollars on offer, but he much preferred staying alive. If word got round that he had Jessica, in a coma, tucked away safely in an upstairs room of the Tapioca, then there was a darn good chance he’d get a visit from the Bourbon Kid. And he sure as shit didn’t want that. Maybe it was the Kid who had posted the missing-persons ad? One thing was certain – Sanchez needed to know who was looking for Jessica, and why. But he couldn’t risk calling the
SMUT
himself and having it known that he was taking an interest in the situation. Distractedly, he picked up the half-chewed piece of sausage from the table, slipped it back into his mouth and started chewing again. After swallowing it and washing it down with a mouthful of coffee he shouted back over to the chef.

‘Yo, Rick! How’d you like to earn yourself a free bottle of liquor?’

Rick frowned. ‘If I have to earn it, it ain’t free.’

‘Do you want a bottle of fuckin’ liquor or not?’

‘Sure. What’s the catch?’

‘Can you call the
SMUT
for me, and ask them who placed this missing-persons advert?’ Sanchez held up page 3 of the newspaper for the chef to take a look.

Rick wandered round from behind the counter and grabbed hold of the newspaper, studying the advertisement.

‘No way they’ll tell you who’s posted it. It’s a confidential ad,’ he said, shrugging.

‘There’s gotta be some way of finding out.’

‘Could be. I know a friend of a friend works for the
SMUT.
Reckon I can ask him to dig around and find out, if it’s that important to you.’

‘It is. And it’s worth a bottle of my best liquor to you if you can do that for me.’

‘Tennessee whiskey?’ the chef asked hopefully.

‘Whatever you desire,’ Sanchez replied, grandly. Anyone who knew him also knew that anything for which he was prepared to give away something that had cost him hard cash, had to be
real
important.

‘You got yourself a deal. Might take a day or two to find out, but I’ll give you a call, soon as I hear anything.’

‘Thanks, Rick I really appreciate it,’ said Sanchez. It sounded as though he meant it, too. ‘Top up that coffee for me, will ya?’

The chef frowned. ‘Why couldn’t you call the
SMUT
yourself?’ he asked.

‘I don’t want anyone knowin’ I’m interested in this girl, is all. Let’s keep this between us. Yeah?’

‘Sure,’ said the chef. He grinned, then added, ‘You know where the coffee jug is. Top up your own coffee, you tubby bastard.’

Stephanie Rogers had been given the most exciting assignment of her entire career in the police force. True, it had sounded like a dull exercise at first. Read a book, compile a presentation based on your findings, and offer suggestions to the hotshot detectives on where to begin investigating those findings. But this was no ordinary book, and this was no ordinary police headquarters in a city that was itself far from normal.