Samantha Moon Phantasm, page 29
part #9 of Vampire for Hire Series
I pulled out of his thoughts, and shored up my mental barrier a little longer. Thoughts were living things, strung together to form new sequences, sometimes coherent, often incoherent, especially when someone was upset. And Roy was very, very upset.
I wanted to tell him that, more than likely, the disappearances had nothing to do with the shadow, except I couldn’t. Not yet. Not until I checked out his story.
“What does your wife say?”
Roy shrugged. “Not much. But she believes me, I think.”
His bouncing knee had picked up its pace, and his glancing eyes had turned furtive. He was beginning to look more and more like a cornered rat. Or, more accurately, feeling more and more foolish, and so I decided to reach out with my mind, which I did now.
Relax. Breathe. Good.
His knees stopped bouncing, and he blinked long and slow. As I reached out to him telepathically, I felt a stirring from deep within. The thing within me loved when I dipped into other people’s thoughts. She especially loved when I manipulated them.
“I believe you,” I said.
He nodded, expelled a long stream of air that reached me from all the way across the McTable.
“You do?” he asked. “You really do?”
“I really do.”
“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.”
“I have some idea. Now, show me where you saw this thing.”
Chapter Three
While I drove behind Roy, I sent a text message to Detective Sherbet’s super-secret cop hotline.
Queen of Strange, huh?
Yes, texting and driving is bad. Unless, of course, you are an immortal with reflexes that even a cat would admire.
At the next light, I got his reply. I imagined his fat, sausage-like fingers picking out the words on the keypad, and giggled. He wrote: I thought you might like that, Laugh Out Loud.
It’s LOL, Detective. You don’t spell it out. I wrote back, my fingers a blur over the keypad. And I’ve been called worse.
As the light turned green, I got his next message: What do you think of his story?
I think he saw something.
I do, too. Roy’s a good guy. Salt-of-the-earth type. Hardworking. Nothing to gain from this.
Except some added tourism? I suggested.
Mostly he’s received ridicule from friends and family. Not worth the extra coinage. Plus, he does pretty well on his own. Doesn’t need bullshit like this complicating his life.
Do I complicate your life, Detective?
Just help him. And it wouldn’t hurt if you looked into the missing boys.
A two-fer, I wrote. Or a three-fer.
Something like that. His story really checks out?
It does, Detective.
You saw it? he wrote back. Like in his mind?
I did, I wrote. Like in his mind.
So there’s really something in the lake?
I think so.
Holy sweet Jesus.
Laugh out loud, I spelled out, still giggling at the detective’s faux pas. Now get back to work and quit texting. Your fingers are probably tired.
They are, he wrote. They really are.
We drove past rundown strip malls nestled between newer strip malls, past old homes nestled between newer housing tracts. A lot of the city of Lake Elsinore is hilly. In fact, one hill is a doozy, and seems to divide the city in half. Upon that hill sits some bigger homes with fantastic views of the lake. The homes don’t exude wealth or abundance. It’s as if they just happened to be big, and just happened to be parked on the hillside.
Many of the homes sat on multiple acres of heated, scrubby, useless land. Only the heartiest of shrubs and twisted, sad trees eked out an existence here. And all within view of this shimmering, blue lake, truly an oasis in this desert outpost.
We followed a main road that curved around the lake. Cars along here drove much too fast, as if eager to get around the big, wet shimmering roadblock. I got the feeling the lake felt unappreciated.
I followed Roy’s old Ford truck with its missing tailgate. I wondered how useful a truck could be with a missing tailgate. As I followed, I stole glances at the glittering surface as often as possible, appreciating the hell out of it. It was just so unlikely in this dusty, forgotten, superheated city. But there the lake was, proud and magnificent and sprawling, and just owning this place. Hard not to love and admire Elsinore’s unlikely hero.
We peeled off onto a side road, then another side road, winding down closer and closer to the lake. The vegetation went from scraggly desert brush, to dense lakeside foliage. Reeds and long grasses slapped at my van. Eucalyptus trees grew in abundance. I think the proximity of the lake had something to do with that.
The road ended in a parking lot of sorts. On one side was a grouping of lakeside cabins, and on the other was a beautiful Victorian home fit for a vampire. The home was nestled among the eucalyptus trees and a smattering of oaks that seemed to have forgotten they were in a desert. I felt as if I had pulled up into another world, far removed from the baking asphalts and tailgating cars and decrepit shopping centers. I could see why Roy loved this spot, and why he never wanted to leave, and why he was seeking help. There was, I suspected, no way in hell anyone was scaring him away from this idyllic, and hidden, piece of lakefront property.
There were eight cabins in total, each painted a different color. And when the primaries ran out, the colors didn’t get much more creative after that. Each sported a chimney. Walkways led from the parking lot to the cabins. The walkways were beautifully manicured, with flowers and drought-resistant shrubs, all pruned neatly. Each cabin would have a beautiful view of the lake. I had a very strong desire to stay in one of the cabins, a desire that wasn’t entirely work-related. And the image of Kingsley and I cuddled in bed, with the blinds open and the water lapping just outside was most certainly not work-related.
Before us was a private dock, upon which was tethered a wood-paneled longish boat that looked antique. It also looked very well-maintained.
“Built in 1947,” said Roy, either picking up on my thoughts or following my line of sight. “My dad worked at the boatyard that built it, right here in Elsinore. You’ll notice it’s long and thin. The design was later used as the model for various ocean liners, back in the day.”
I made appropriate noises that suggested I was suitably impressed. He next pointed out that he and his family lived in the big Victorian. Guests could come and go in the main house, as they pleased, where drinks and snacks were always made available. Breakfast was served up by his wife. Drinks in the evening were served up by him, he said, adding a wink and a smile.
I smiled, too, and inhaled the simmering, algae-scented air. Not a bad spot. Not a bad spot at all.
That is, until I saw the tall man moving between the cabins, pushing a wheelbarrow before him. He looked back over his shoulder, then continued between the cabins.
“That’s Ivan, my groundskeeper,” said Roy. “Doesn’t say much, but does a helluva fine job.”
I nodded, not saying much either. Mostly because I had noticed that Ivan wasn’t giving off an aura.
“Now,” said Roy, rubbing his hands, “would you like a tour of the lake?”
“Boy would I.”
Chapter Four
The lake was quiet.
All those busy streets that surrounded the lake? Only a distant memory. And all those crazy drivers whipping through traffic? Part of another world entirely.
Here, in this gently rising and falling antiquated skiff, the world consisted only of a nicely tuned engine and waves slapping the wooden hull. In a blink, Roy went from client to tour guide. He pointed out a beautiful old plantation-style home overlooking the lake, once the home of Bela Lugosi. Clark Gable had come often to fish and duck hunt. William Hart, the top Western silent film star, lived there in that old house. And an old Moorish-looking castle was built by the founder of the International Church of Christian Gospel, Aimee McPherson, aptly called Aimee’s Castle. I’d never heard of such a church or of her, but the massive structure looked beautiful. It had been privately purchased by an eccentric scientist nearly a decade ago. Lucky bastard.
More stories, and more celebrities. Steve McQueen had hung out just beyond there with his motorcycle pals, often frequenting a downtown bar called The Wreck. Frank Morgan, who had played the Wizard in the Wizard of Oz, vacationed here often. They referred to him as The Wiz.
Movies were filmed here: King Solomon’s Mines with Richard Chamberlain; Norwood with Glen Campbell, Joe Namath, and Dom DeLuise; And the Children Shall Lead with Levar Burton.
These days, celebrities came for the speedboat races and to skydive. Once, a Kardashian had vacationed in one of his cabins. He hadn’t known what a Kardashian was at the time. Still didn’t.
We continued slowly, as the sun danced off the gently rolling wake. There were only a handful of boats out, being midday and midweek. Elsinore was, apparently, a weekend destination.
Earl Stanley Gardner, of Perry Mason fame, had sometimes set his novels on Lake Elsinore. Roy’s now-deceased aunt used to work for Earl as his personal assistant. I thought that was kinda cool. I also made a mental note to check Amazon for some Perry Mason deals. With luck, there might even be a freebie.
There were certainly bigger and more interesting lakes in the world. Hell, I’d seen a number of them. But looking at Roy’s content face, you wouldn’t believe it. His look said it all: this lake, in this unlikely setting, was the most interesting thing around—and he clearly loved it.
Along the west side of the lake, Roy cut the engine. “It was here that I saw the shadow the second time.”
Earlier, at the dock, he had pointed out where he’d had his first sighting, walking me through it. As he walked me through it, I relived it in his mind, confirming for myself that he wasn’t full of shit and just looking for publicity. Yeah, he’d seen a long-ass shadow.
I’d half-expected the second sighting to be within a few hundred yards of his dock. Something to explain why Roy was the only one seeing this thing—or the only one reporting seeing this thing. But we were in the middle of the lake. His massive estate home was just a blip in the far distance. But we were quite a ways away.
“Just last week?” I confirmed.
“Yup.”
I looked down into the glittering water, the sun hot on my neck, but not doing any real damage. Was I miserable? Yes. Mostly, the thing within me was miserable. Lord, how she hated the sun. Except her misery was my misery, too, the bitch. Her preferences were now my preferences. Except I did all I could to not give in to her needs. Her needs would lead me down a rabbit hole of murder and destruction, and would eventually unleash into the world one of the most powerful sorceresses of all time. True story.
And so I sat there, burning slightly, but not really. Any burns I received healed as quickly as they appeared. Had someone been watching my skin closely, they would no doubt see the burn appear, and then disappear, to be repeated over and over again, for as long as I stood out here.
So weird, I thought. But kind of cool, too.
It was just after noon. There was, precisely, not a cloud in the sky. Blue as far as the eye could see, all reflected in this big body of water.
“Clarity is one to three feet,” said Roy.
“Which means the shadow had been close to the surface?”
“Probably. Then again, something that big could probably be seen maybe a dozen or so feet below, especially if it’s moving, which it was.”
“Could it have been a fish?”
“As long as my boat?”
I shrugged, playing devil’s advocate. “It’s a big lake.”
“It’s not that big. We’re six miles long and not quite two miles wide. Forty-two feet at its deepest, but averages closer to thirty feet. Nearly three thousand acres of surface area. Big yes, but not that big.”
“But yet,” I added. “It’s here.”
He nodded at that, and kept nodding.
“Does being out here now make you nervous?” I asked.
He peered over the rail next to me and sighed. This close, I could smell his aftershave and some body odor. I could smell his hair gel and dirty cargo shorts. He smelled like a big kid. He said, “I don’t know what to think or feel, Sam. Thinking there might be something down there makes me nervous; not just for me, but for anyone who uses this lake. I’m telling you right now, no swimmer would have a chance against it. Ten men wouldn’t have a chance against it. It was that big and that fast.”
“The two missing boys... were they swimming in the lake?”
“As far as I know, no. But I only know what made it to the papers.” He was gripping the railing tight enough for his knuckles to show white. “I’m afraid for my friends, my family, for anyone who uses the lake, Sam. Except, I don’t know what the hell to do about it. Everyone I’ve talked to laughs it off. Except now, two boys have gone missing, and I feel guilty as hell, somehow. I don’t know who else to turn to. Sherbet barely gave me the time of day, but at least he recommended you. But unless you have some high-tech sonar equipment or you are an experienced diver, I’m not sure what evidence you can bring back. I’m not sure what I was thinking by bringing you out here. I’m sorry, but I think I wasted your time.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “I can’t deny that I’m out of my element here. Then again, I have eyes to see, ears to hear, and I’m patient as hell. Also, I know how to follow clues all the way to answers.”
He chuckled, then dropped his head down between his arms. His neck had the look and consistency of my leather satchel that also doubled as my laptop bag. “Maybe I’m losing my mind, Sam. No one else appears to have seen it. At least, not recently. Or they were smart enough to keep their mouths shut.”
I said nothing. After all, I’d questioned my own sanity for at least a decade now.
He looked at me and added, “I need answers, Sam. I need to feel comfortable on this lake. And I need to warn people, if necessary. Okay, you’re hired. Sherbet says you’re the Queen of Strange, and this is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
We discussed rates, right there on the open water, and he suggested a barter. Half my rates for a week’s use of his best cabin. I grinned and thought about Kingsley, a fireplace, and more snuggling than any woman had any right to hope for. My own lake monster.
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Chapter Five
Detective Hillary Oster returned with my driver’s license and investigator’s license. She had, I noted, made copies of them. She folded the copies and slipped them under her keyboard.
“You check out, Ms. Moon,” she said. I couldn’t tell if checking out was a good thing or a bad thing, based on her expression. Detective Oster was in her mid-forties and didn’t smile much. In fact, she seemed to go out of her way to frown. Had I been sitting on my head, Detective Oster would be grinning like a fool. Right side up, not so much. I found all her frowning perplexing, since I’m adorable.
“I was holding my breath.”
“I wasn’t.” She laced her thick fingers in front of her. No nail polish. No rings. Chewed her nails. She was the picture of calm, even while the department behind me was a beehive of activity. “Now, what’s your interest in the missing boys?”
I slipped inside her thoughts and saw the wall. It wasn’t directed at me, not entirely. She didn’t like private dicks, but she mostly didn’t like the FBI agents who’d come in here and taken over the place. She was the lead investigator for both missing boys, but now, she didn’t know her place. She’d never before had a case that had interested the FBI, and she hoped she never did again. She was in a bad mood and not about to open up to me. It was time I exerted myself, to the delight of the demoness within me.
My reasons are perfectly reasonable, I thought, planting the words directly into her thoughts. I have nothing but the boys’ best interest and well-being in mind. Do you understand?
There was a pause, necessary for her subconscious mind to realize it had just been taken over. A moment later, she nodded.
Good, I thought. Now give me a smile.
She nodded again, and her lips quivered in what appeared to be a rictus of pain.
Scratch that, I thought. No smiling. As you were.
Her lips dropped with relief, and all was right in her world again. I said, “Could you tell me more about the boys’ disappearance?”
She nodded, blinked. “Their disappearances have been tough on everyone. We’ve been working overtime on this. I’m not sure I’ve slept in a week.”
She gave me the rundown. The boys were the same age: twelve years old. Both were Caucasian. Both were troublemakers. Both had had run-ins with the police. Usually for smoking pot or ditching school. Once or twice for tagging. Once for a minor break-in.
“What’s a minor break-in?” I asked.
“They broke into their history classroom and urinated and defecated on the teacher’s desk.”
“Hey, when you have to go...” I said. “They were friends?”
“The best of friends, apparently. Quite frankly, they were just rotten together, although everyone seemed to adore them.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Teachers, fellow students, the girls in class. They were bad boys with a heart of gold.”
“Even the teacher whose desk they turned into a toilet?”
“That’s just the thing, Ms. Moon: the boys never did anything too outlandish, or too hurtful to get into any real trouble. Even when they were tagging they were simply tagging over other graffiti, and just using their initials. Anyway, they have been missed and, although they are a couple of boneheads, there’s great worry for them. Truly, they didn’t deserve whatever has befallen them.”
