~Prologue~
Early 2004
“Commander Dempsky, she’s here to see you.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Regina Dempsky, the Head of Covert Operations for the Department of Magical Defense, balanced the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she opened a manilla folder on her desk and looked at the top page. She frowned. “I knew this was going to be a tough one as soon as the search of the
The door to Ms. Dempsky’s office opened seconds later and a slender, dark-haired woman walked in. On the shorter side of average, her hair was just beginning to gray, and shallow lines had begun to travel beneath her eyes, but her shapely legs and athletic build concealed her true age well. She wore a navy blue suit and the expression of someone who had recently eaten something bitter.
Commander Dempsky offered a bland smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Lieutenant?”
The woman strode toward the desk. She stopped just short, suddenly hesitant. After a moment’s pause, she spoke, her words hurried. “Commander Dempsky, I respectfully request permission to be dropped from this investigation.”
“Permission... denied.”
Dark eyes glittered with frustration. “I can’t go through with this. I’m, eh, too close to the target.”
“You haven’t had contact with him in almost twenty years. He’s not the same man he was. Besides, it’s easy to make changes in one’s physical appearance, as you well know. He will not recognize you.”
“It’s not that; those working on the identity concealment aspects of Project Grammarye have done nothing but top-notch jobs from day one. It’s just that....” She trailed off, unsure as to how to proceed; the dossier her commanding officer had placed in her mailbox earlier shook in her left hand’s tenuous grip.
“If it’s a question of ethics, I assure you that the benefits far outweigh the moral costs. Besides, you’re the best in the business. He’s been on the run for years and now he’s vulnerable and weak.”
“We both know he was innocent!”
“‘Was’ being the operative word there, Lieutenant. He’s committed several crimes against the Loyalist Movement since the murder—”
“—the one he never committed? My God, I’ve thought about that day ever since! We hurt a lot of people that afternoon; good people who shouldn’t have had to suffer like they have! Some have never fully recovered, and—”
“Silence!”
“We made him what he is! It’s our fault! He would never have done—”
“You’re out of order, and you took an oath!”
She bit her lip and nodded. “Affirmative.” The hand holding the dossier began to shake.
Dempsky folded her hands and regarded the officer over her glasses. “We did what we had to do for the betterment of the Movement. I won’t admit that it wasn’t without having to make some tough decisions.” She hesitated. “He’s a man without a country now, as you’ve been advised. The Visionists don’t want him, and the Loyalist higher-ups are afraid that he could lead some sort of coup against everything we’ve worked toward since ninety-one.”
“You mean, that he’d become more powerful than Raphael Valdez was?” She burst into laughter. “No way! He’s not the type.”
“I know that the case is sensitive to you, but you are the best we have. I don’t use praise lightly, as you’ve learned over the years. You were close to him; as you’ve just demonstrated, you have an idea as to how he operates.”
“I can’t believe I’m being asked to do this,” the lieutenant protested.
Her commanding officer ignored her outburst. “Before the non-magical police force trashed the entire area, the Scarlet Guard combed the ruins of
“And then?”
“That’s not your concern. You’re to report your findings to me as they come clear. I’ll give you additional instructions as the situation warrants.” She shuffled papers on his desk. “Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve instructed the guards to bring evidence from the estate to you for your perusal. It will be waiting in exam room one. Once you’ve had a chance to look at it, maybe you’ll get an idea as to where he would’ve vanished. I’ve already had the Department of Magical Births looking into any possible living relatives he might have tried to go to, but nothing panned out. It looks like he’s well and truly alone.”
“And when can I expect this evidence?”
“Two days. Three, at worst.”
The lieutenant nodded. “You know where I’ll be,” she said, low. “Let me know when it arrives.” She started to turn away, then thought better of it. “Does Roger know that he’s alive? Does the boy, or his wife?”
“We both know Roger. He’ll figure it out, eventually. Dr. Reid has informed me that Mrs. Madison is a Dreamfaster, as is Simon, but I doubt that Scott is going to subject her to more torture as far as conversing with him goes. Tessa’s only just left St. Stephens, and with the knowledge that Simon is dead. It’s out of civilian hands now, and is a matter for Grammarye.”
Commander Dempsky smiled. “You’re as tough as nails, Lieutenant. I knew that we could count on you to treat this with the utmost professionalism. Do a good job here, and I’ll be supporting your petition to become an international magical liaison.”
The woman allowed a ghost of a smile to cross her features. “If things turn out the way I suspect that they will, I’ll welcome it. I’ll want to be as far away from Simon and Roger as possible.”
“Dismissed.”
~1~
Cranberry
The sky was dark gray, portending snow. The wind whipped through the trees, sending leaves and loose rubbish blowing through the nearly empty streets of Cranberry Cove. The local forecast had issued a winter storm warning to the region (eighteen to twenty-four inches of the white stuff on the mainland over two days) but the snow wasn’t supposed to begin for several hours; that was, according to the pretty meteorologist on channel seven.
Les Gilley, the seventy-seven year old proprietor of Gilleys’ One-Stop peered out the window warily as he put down his pencil and rubbed his hands together to keep them warm. Living near the sea had hardened the old man to the elements, but the day was unusually bitter and raw, even for coastal
The old man stood up from his rickety chair and ambled over to the wood stove in the corner of the room. He picked up the poker and gave the glowing embers a good stir before he added another log to the fire. His stomach growled and he looked at the clock on the wall:
“Excuse me.”
Gilley jumped and turned around, thoroughly spooked. A short man stood on the opposite side of the counter, his face flushed and his expression unreadable. “You just scared the living daylights out of me,” Gilley exclaimed, leaning against the counter and shaking his head. He looked upwards to the string of bells suspended just above the front door. They normally jingled for several seconds after a customer entered; currently, they hung motionless from the ceiling. Downright weird, he thought as he scratched his head. I didn't even hear the door open. “Can I help yeh?”
The stranger pointed to the “For Rent” sign in front window of the office. “Is it still available?”
“The cottage? Yeah, it’s still available. Who wants to know?”
The stranger’s answer was short, direct and to the point: “I do.”
Doesn’t seem as if he’s in the mood for a long chat. Probably from away, mused Gilley, looking at the stranger’s clothes. Nobody he knew wore clothing like what the man in front of him wore: a long, black cloak, dark trousers and a dark-gray fedora. He’s probably from someplace big—
“The place’s a one-bedroom with a kitchenette, bathroom and entertainin’ area. There’s a shed behind it, but it’s small. That gonna be good enough for yeh?”
The man nodded.
“Do yeh wanna go take a look at it?”
The man shook his head. “I'm sure it’s fine. I want to rent it.”
“Yer a trustin’ bastard,” laughed Gilley. “I could be sellin’ yeh a dive an’ yeh wouldn't even know.”
The man did not laugh. His expression was hard, determined. “I trust you.”
Something about the stranger did not sit quite right with Gilley. He couldn’t put his finger on it, exactly, but something wasn’t adding up. “Were are yeh from? Whadd’ya do fer a livin’?” he asked.
“I’m a writer.”
Totally ignored my first question. Definitely from away, Gilley thought, giving himself a mental pat of self-congratulation. I can pick ’em every time. Nobody around these parts wrote anything.
“Whadd’ya write?”
The short man closed his eyes in concentration. For several seconds he didn't speak. When he finally opened his mouth, the words were spoken slowly, carefully:
“I’m not published yet. I’m an aspiring writer.”
Great, thought Gilley dispiritedly as his smile slid from his face, an aspiring writer. That means that he ain't a writer yet. What’re the chances that an aspiring writer’ll be able to pay his rent on time? None, that's what!
“I’m sorry, this ain’t gonna work. The wife and I, we live off Social Security and rent checks. If you don’t have no job and no pay comin’ in, how are you plannin’ on payin’ the rent?”
His prospective tenant sighed, then placed a gloved hand deep into the pocket of his cloak. He pulled out an unmarked envelope and pushed it across the countertop.
Gilley looked at the man with one eyebrow raised. “What’s this?”
“Take it.”
Gilley picked up a nearby letter opener with gnarled fingers and slit the envelope open. He was surprised to find a large wad of cash inside. He began to count it: fifty, one hundred, one-fifty, two…. He hadn’t seen this much money at one time since Myron Gaddis won on the slots at the Indian Casino up north. He continued to count: two thousand fifty, two thousand one hundred…
“Five thousand.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Five thousand dollars. It’s my life savings. It should cover my rent until my first b-book is published.”
“Nobody has this kind of cash to throw around, ’cept doctors and dope pushers,” the landlord said with a degree of suspicion. He looked to the phone on the wall and debated making a call to the county sheriff. “Are you sellin’ drugs? The wife and I try to maintain a reputable business here. I don’t need trouble, Mr.—”
The man ignored the hint for his name and shrugged. “I’m clean. If you don’t believe me, give me back my envelope and I’ll be on my way.” He paused, his lips moving silently, as if practicing his next words: “There’s another place for rent down the street. Maybe my money will be g-good there.” He reached for the envelope with his gloved hand.
Realizing that he was about to lose a lot of cash (and a warm space next to the wife when she discovered what he’d done), Les Gilley’s mouth turned upwards into what he hoped was a pleasant grin. He lifted his hands in the air, palms out in a gesture of truce.
“That’s all right, friend. You look like an upstanding’ citizen! Drug dealer’d be high on his own stuff to try and sell here. Ain’t nobody got any money ‘round here, being that the fishin’ season’s been so bad and all.”
“Then we have an agreement?”
Gilley nodded, turned away from the tired-looking man and opened the drawer of his disorganized mahogany desk, searching for a lease agreement. He found it underneath the strongbox. He pulled the paperwork from the drawer with arthritic fingers and slapped it on the countertop before his prospective tenant, who had already pulled a rather unusual pen from his pocket. Gilley thought that it looked like one of those old-fashioned quill numbers he’d seen a couple of times on Antiques Roadshow.
“Six hundred an’ fifty every month, due on the first. Don't want no pets in there, either.” Gilley’s expression was apologetic. “Wife’s rule, not mine. She says that dogs’ll bark all night and cats’ll piss everywhere and there’s nothin’ that gets that smell outta the rugs.”
The tenant didn’t comment, focusing instead on the document before him. After quickly skimming the sheet, he placed the nib of his quill to the signature line. For several seconds he paused, seemingly deep in thought. A small daub of ink leaked from the pen, bleeding into the paper.
Gilley noticed the man’s hesitation. “Everything okay? You still want the place, right? Erm, maybe I can talk the missus into a cat if you really want one,” he offered. “Maybe I can make her reconsider, have you pay a security deposit in case it destroys the place or somethin’. You know how women are…” he trailed off weakly.
“I do, and yeah, I still want the place,” the man said, hastily scrawling his name and underlining it with a flourish. “I don’t need a c-cat, either.” He handed the document to Mr. Gilley, who took it from him and read it over.
“You can move in this afternoon, if you want,” Gilley said. “Property’s been unoccupied for months, so I expect there’s bound to be some dust, an’—” He stopped, mid-sentence and stared at his new tenant; the man was clutching at his left arm and grimacing with pain. “Are you all right?”
The man relaxed his grip on his forearm. “Old war injury,” he explained with a small grimace. “It flares up every now and a-a-again.” With difficulty, he forced his arm back to his side.
“I’ve got some Tylenol around here, if you need it,” Gilley said, pointing to a display of medications to his right.
“I’ll need something stronger than that,” the short man responded, frowning.
Gilley chuckled knowingly. “Well, can’t help you there, friend. Cranberry Cove’s been dry these past forty years. Try
“Duly noted.”
Les reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “I suppose you’ll be needin’ these.” He placed the fob on the countertop and pushed it across. “Do you need help movin’ your stuff? I can call my son to help you if you have heavy things to move. He lives just a few blocks down the road.”
“No, thanks. I’d prefer to be alone.”
“Okay, I understand. You want to begin writin’ right away and don’t want to be disturbed, eh?”
“Something like that.”
Gilley looked outside. The sky was as gray as he’d ever seen it. “You sure you don’t want Joseph to help you with your stuff? ‘Bout to start snowin’ something fierce any minute.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Well, if there’s any problems, I’m here every day. The shower fixtures in that apartment bathroom are screwed up, just so’s you know. The hot water tap is actually the cold water and vicey-versey. And don’t use too much TP in the can; the thing has a nasty habit of pluggin’ up if you’re not careful. Awfully shitty situation if you’ve ever been there!” He laughed as if he’d told the funniest joke in the world.
For the first time since the start of the whole exchange, Mr. Gilley’s new tenant smiled. “I'll take that under a-advisement.” He held out his small hand for the landlord to shake. Gilley put the lease agreement on his desk, turned back to his new tenant and gave him his hand.
“Pleasure doin’ business with you, Mr.—forgive me, I just read it on yer agreement,” Gilley apologized. He tapped the side of his head with his index finger. “The Alzheimer’s is right on time, it’d appear. What’s yer name again?”
“Timothy. Timothy Tremain.”
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