MISS CLARE PACED AROUND HER HOUSE EARLY IN THE MORNING, ANXIOUS TO find out if anything new had come up. She had no real way of knowing other than meeting the others involved; however, as she never left her house unless in the company of someone else, she didn't have a car to go visit anybody. She didn't know why she should be bothered about the case so much this time; she supposed it was the thought that whoever had done this, even if they weren't with Scorpio, was still out there.
She also wondered how Derrick was doing. She hadn't seen him since Luther's trial, and she'd never spoken with him before, not even in the cult. There was one thing the two of them had in common, though--Bodine. He'd been known to mistreat plenty of people within the cult, friends and foes alike; in his view Miss Clare had been considered "friend" and Derrick "foe," though why that was she had no idea. Alec could very well have been Derrick's father for all anyone knew; yet he certainly hadn't treated Derrick like a son. Derrick's mother had ended up dead trying to escape the cult while Derrick was still a baby; she knew because Bodine had told her. He'd told her just about everything that happened that involved him; she was his "favorite," and could be counted on to keep her mouth shut. One of the higher-ups in the cult, named Gregory, had noticed what he considered a "hold" over Bodine, and as soon as Luther had taken over had offered her as a sort of welcoming gift. Well she remembered the look Luther had gotten on his face on seeing her presented to him. He'd looked surprised, then shocked, then furious; he shoved her out of his room and yelled at Gregory to come in. She'd stood outside and had heard him screaming at Gregory for what he obviously considered an affront--"Don't you bring me anything unless I tell you to!" If she'd been fully indoctrinated she supposed she would have been insulted; however, the situation suited her just fine. After Bodine she wasn't interested in getting involved with any high priests again. Gregory had come out, looking embarrassed; seeing her, he'd yelled at her to get back to the common room where she belonged. As she'd done. That was her first and only confrontation with Luther. It was hard to believe he'd only been seventeen then.
Then she'd escaped, and now this...
[Note--spoilers for the climax of D Is For Damien in this paragraph.] Her thoughts continued to wander as she paced. She supposed it was her fault that Lieutenant Mabarak, whom Trooper Broderick had called his partner, had ended up dead; she was the one that shot the gun that broke the glass above which were several tons of water, sending it sweeping down and drowning him. [Note--"tons of water"...eh...sorry about that.] They'd found his switchblade, which he'd always carried, afterwards, floating in the lake. She'd only done it to save Damien and herself. She knew he was crooked; she'd heard when Luther ordered him brought to the compound, during the original investigation. She guessed he'd been too involved with the case, to end up the way he did; he'd needed barely any indoctrination to join. She supposed he was already crazy.
In any case, he was dead now.
Would Trooper Broderick have blamed her for that?
She stopped pacing and tried to gather her thoughts. Did she want to leave, or not? If she did she'd better call someone to pick her up. She wasn't sure if Damien was up yet or not, or even if he was home; it was still early. She picked up the phone, paused, and then dialed one of the numbers she had told herself to remember, just in case.
The phone picked up on the second ring. "Michigan State Police."
She hated even talking on the phone, and had to search for her voice. "Hello?" the voice on the other end said. She recognized it; it was that detective friend of Damien's. If only she could remember his name...
"Yes, this is--this is Miss Clare--"
"Oh, hi. This is Mulroy. Anything you need?"
At least he remembered her. "Uh--yes. I was wondering if Trooper Broderick is there."
"Yes, he is. We're getting ready to go. What is it you need?"
"I was--I was wondering if he could pick me up. But if you're too busy--"
"No, actually we were going to meet with Damien and his uncle. I'll tell him you called. Anything else?"
"Uh--no, thanks. Thank you very much. Goodbye."
She hung up before she could make an idiot out of herself. What a stupid ending! "No thanks, thank you very much!" She'd have to work on that.
She turned away from the phone, let out her breath in a whoosh, picked up her jacket and put it on, and then went to the door to wait.
Damien and his uncle were already waiting at the Family House Restaurant, it being attached to Glen's, which was right next to Wal-Mart. Father Damien watched with awe as Damien worked on his third cup of coffee. As far as he knew, his nephew had never liked coffee. Yet here he was drinking it.
"Have you been sleeping well?" he asked.
Damien smiled wearily. "Now that you mention it, not quite."
So that was it. "Having nightmares again?"
Damien had told him before of his recurring dreams; there were several of them, one involving his escape from Scorpio, another his dead sister. "Kind of...There's this one I've never told you about. I started having it about six years ago. Jeez, almost exactly six years ago."
"What is it?"
[Note--again, spoilers for the climax of D Is For Damien.] "Well, it's right after Miss Clare shot out that window under Lake Huron. You know, when Mabarak was killed?"
A nod.
"Well, all this water pours down and I feel like I'm drowning. I see bubbles around me and everything. Then someone grabs my arms. I look up, and it's Mabarak, and he says to me, 'I'll be looking for you in the square.' Then he laughs, these bubbles come out of his mouth, and I wake up."
"You've been having this dream for six years?"
"Not too often. I had it a couple times back then. Not since then. I don't know why the heck I'm having it now." He sighed and shrugged, taking a big gulp of his coffee. "Maybe it was just on hearing his name again. I wish the whole thing would just die."
The doors opened and closed. Mulroy entered and came towards them; Damien had to fight off a feeling of deja vu. [Note--mild spoiler for D Is For Damien.] It was also six years ago that he'd known a private detective named Morris, and had met him in this same restaurant which had back then borne the name of the B&C; Morris had ended up dead. Killed by Mabarak.
"G'morning," Mulroy said, settling down beside Father Damien. "Trooper Broderick should be here in a bit. He went to pick up Miss Clare."
Father Damien raised an eyebrow; Mulroy only shrugged and rubbed his cold hands.
"Don't ask me. I guess she wanted to come too. What is it you want, anyway?"
"I'd prefer to wait until B shows up. Then I can go through it once. It's a little complicated but I think it's important."
"Yeah, well, okay. I'm going to order a coffee while we wait."
He raised his hand at a waitress walking by; Damien sighed and put his head down to try and snatch a little rest before Trooper Broderick arrived.
Tap--tap tap--tap.
That knock again; it must be him. Miss Clare snapped out of her reverie and went to answer the door. She didn't know why she should be so nervous, she'd called after all; why was she so confused all the time?
She unlocked the door and peered out.
"Good morning," Trooper Broderick greeted, touching a hand to his hat. She smiled at him and undid the latch, exited, and locked the door behind her. He stepped aside as if to say "Ladies first"; she wrapped her jacket around her and went down the steps to the waiting Blazer. He opened the door for her again; she wondered where he could have gotten his manners. She was settling herself and trying to find the seatbelt when he got in, shutting the door behind him.
She watched as he buckled in himself, started the engine, and glanced back over his shoulder. They backed out into the road, turned around, and drove away.
She knew the ride was going to take a little while, as she lived way out in the country, where she assumed she would be safest from Scorpio, which had their headquarters in the city. She bit her lip and wondered if she should try to start any conversation.
Thankfully, he solved that for her. "I'm sorry about that incident in the parking lot yesterday," he said, and at first she had no idea what he was talking about. Then she remembered--the argument he and Mulroy had had. She was still wondering what that was about. What had Mulroy meant by "family"? Trooper Broderick wasn't wearing a ring; he didn't seem to be married. She'd never heard of any kids.
She put those questions aside. Prying would be rude; he hadn't seemed to want to talk about it anyway. "It's all right. I think maybe this whole thing is getting to everyone."
The ghost of a smile came to his face. "That's one thing."
A long silence.
She had to ask or it would drive her crazy! "I'm not trying to be rude...but what Detective Mulroy said...something about your family? Do you have children?"
He looked at her briefly, then turned back to the road. There was a pause before he spoke.
"I was married once, then divorced. Two kids. That was quite a while ago."
"Oh." Divorced. That explained it. But what did it have to do with Scorpio?
He appeared to be debating with himself whether he should continue. He took a breath and let it out, gripping the wheel. Finally he spoke again.
"My ex--my ex-wife and my daughter were both killed. There was a theory Scorpio did it. That was about as far as we got on the case. After that it was shut down. No questions asked."
He fell silent and continued driving. Miss Clare stared into space. She couldn't believe what she'd just heard. He'd been so calm the whole time this mess with the files was going on, had even insisted on not pushing it when Mulroy did--when that was what had really happened...
She thought she remembered something from her last days in the cult. Everyone had known there were police investigating them; Mabarak's name was known, as he'd been the one harrying them the most. But there had been mention of another one, and someone had said something about "showing his family what's good for them."
Was this what they had meant? If so now she felt doubly guilty; first his partner, then his family! But it wasn't as if she could have done anything...
"Damien says you were a big help to him before when he had trouble with Scorpio."
She glanced at him, looking for any signs of malice. There were none she could see. "A little, I suppose...I helped him find what he was looking for."
"What was that?"
"A necklace. Shaped like a D."
"He wears one of those, doesn't he?"
"Yes, like it. The one he was looking for was made of diamonds."
He raised his eyebrows briefly.
"I know. I knew where it was because A--" She cut herself off abruptly, flushing. But he knew all about Bodine, didn't he? Bodine was the one he and Mabarak had been trying to hunt down, had even caught once and failed to convict. Bodine had gone back to the cult laughing. How great had that made Broderick feel?
"--I--uh--I was told by Bodine."
He nodded slightly. Other than that, no change in his expression.
Emboldened by that, she took a breath and continued. "He told me lots of things. I suppose that's why they came after me so hard after I left."
"How did you get out?"
A real interest there! She answered promptly. "I had some help from a couple other women in the group. They knew a breach in the security, that wasn't guarded as heavily because it was near water. You understand that, I suppose."
He nodded; his profile had stated Scorpio's deathly fear of water.
"I'm thinking it wasn't guarded as much because they didn't think anybody would try to escape that way. I really didn't like the thought, but it was better than being with Scorpio--with him."
She didn't notice the cutting tone that had entered her voice until he glanced at her. She flushed again and went on, more subdued.
"After that I just hid. I had some money saved up and I got that house. I had all those locks installed. For quite a while there were bricks flying in my windows and things painted on my house and threatening messages left on my stoop. After a while though it quieted down."
"Have you truly considered a guard dog?"
"Oh no, I couldn't have one of those. There's no room."
"Especially not for a doberman."
They both laughed.
They'd reached town by now; they passed the State Police post and pulled in at Glen's.
"What exactly are you and Damien meeting for?"
"He didn't actually tell us. He only said he thought it might be important." He got out and opened her door. She followed him to the building; he opened the door for here there too. His politeness was making her dizzy.
Mulroy, Damien, and Father Damien were already seated in one of the booths; seeing them enter, they got up and moved to a table so there would be room for the five of them. Mulroy nodded at Miss Clare, then looked at Damien. The newcomers did the same.
"What's this about?" Trooper Broderick asked Mulroy.
"He wouldn't tell me till you showed up. So I'm ready to know too."
In response Damien pulled out the mailing envelope that had been given to him by the two men dressed in black. He handed it to Trooper Broderick, who took it and read the words written on the outside.
"Where'd you get this?" he asked. "And what is it?"
"A couple of guys gave it to me. I don't know who they were but they said they knew Officer D'Amato." Mulroy glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "I haven't opened it yet."
"Think it's a bomb?" Mulroy asked, half-joking.
"No. It's papers of some kind." He looked across at Damien. The singer shrugged.
"Open it, if you like. I have no idea what it is."
There was a red string tying the envelope shut. Broderick undid it and pulled it open. He reached in and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Some of them were loose; others were stapled together, and one group was in a plastic cover. He frowned and laid them out on the tabletop.
The other four leaned over to get a better look. The type was small, but there were larger words screaming across the tops of the papers:
CONFIDENTIAL
CONC. "SCORPIO" REPRT.
INVESTIGATION PROCEEDINGS
Trooper Broderick's frown deepened as he leafed through the papers. His name was on several of them; it was contained in many more. Mabarak's name was there also, and Mulroy's; when he opened the plastic folder some newsclippings fell out. Damien picked them up and handed several around while he read the others.
MYSTERIOUS MURDERS SEEMED TO BE LINKED
CULT CONNECTION?
AUTHORITIES SEARCHING FOR CULT INFORMANT
WOMAN FOUND MURDERED
"What the hell..." Mulroy's voice was heavy with disbelief as he flipped through the reports. Many of the clippings weren't from Michigan at all; they appeared to be from all over the United States. Damien's eyes were riveted to the WOMAN FOUND MURDERED clip; there was a photo showing the old railroad bridge where his sister had been found.
"I've never even heard of half of these!" Mulroy exclaimed.
Trooper Broderick was silent, flipping through the folder. The title on its front read SCORPIO CULT PROCEEDINGS. It looked to be some kind of investigation summary; Damien couldn't tell. Finally Broderick looked up, and stared right at him.
"Where did you get these?" he asked. None of them liked the tone of his voice; it could have frozen a lighter flame in place.
"I told you already. A couple of guys came up to me and just gave it to me."
"What did they look like?"
"I don't know. Just a couple of guys. Dressed in black."
"They had guns with them," Father Damien said; Damien glared at him. He hadn't wanted that detail revealed. His uncle only looked back at him.
"What did they tell you?"
"They just said they hoped it could help me out. They said they were friends of D'Amato. I didn't even know what it was. I thought maybe D'Amato'd done a little digging or something."
"This is not a little digging," Mulroy said, looking at him. "This is at least thirty years of investigation into the cult. I don't even know all of this. When B and I got involved we were never shown this. We were only told to concentrate on the Michigan murders."
"Mulroy," Trooper Broderick said. His voice held a warning.
Mulroy looked back at him and shrugged. "What the hell does it matter now? They've got the information right in front of them. We didn't get it. We may as well just shout from the top of the building what's going on here."
"What I want to know is how this information was obtained."
Damien bit his lip. "There's something I didn't quite tell you..."
Everyone was looking at him before he'd even finished that. He held up his hands. "I didn't know if it mattered. And it didn't look very good anyway. I thought maybe I'd better keep quiet."
"What?" Trooper Broderick's eyes were boring right through him.
"It was at the police station yesterday. After the 'conference.' D'Amato was over talking to Chief Jones. They looked like they were arguing."
Everyone was silent.
"I couldn't hear what they were saying but then D'Amato said 'Don't make me ask for any favors, Jones.' [Note--missing comma after "said."] Jones just slammed the door in his face. That was it."
The silence seemed to go on forever. Finally Mulroy tapped his fingers against the table, whistling through his teeth.
"Maybe I underestimated that guy after all."
"Or the power of his friends." Trooper Broderick picked up the scattered papers and placed them back in the envelope. "I don't want any of you talking about this outside the group. Do you know who I mean by that?" They looked at him. "Everyone who was in that meeting room yesterday. And not even all of them. Chief Jones isn't to hear about this yet until I find out what's going on."
"What about Ms. Cooper-Waite?" Damien asked. "And Felman? Dr. Leja and Officer Jones?"
"Ms. Cooper-Waite wouldn't benefit from any of this. Felman and Leja are with us. I don't know what you'd like to tell Officer Jones or the others. They barely know about this." He tapped the papers back in and sealed the envelope. "But you can talk with them if you want. But no one else. Only who was in that room."
"So are we going to use any of it?" Mulroy asked. He actually sounded anxious; he was hoping Broderick wouldn't turn on him again.
Trooper Broderick only looked at him, and handed the envelope back to Damien. "We may and we may not. It depends on what happens. For now, though, Damien, give this to Temple. Tell him to keep his eyes on it, sleep with it under his pillow, whatever. Just as long as it stays safe."
Temple received the envelope with an uneasy look, but said nothing. Damien left after the attorney had given him his word the envelope would be kept in a safe place, and the singer didn't doubt him; Temple had never let him down before. He went home to try to get some rest; the past several weeks had been going at him like crazy. It felt as if a million things were clamoring for his attention at once, and he couldn't handle it.
The kids, Harvey and Esmeralda, weren't at home when he got there; he sighed and sat down on the couch, rubbing his head. Kat came in with a glass and handed it to him. He opened his eyes and looked at it.
"What's this?"
"Something to make you sleep better. F. D. tells me you've been drinking a lot of coffee lately. Not good for your nerves."
"Yeah, I know. Thanks. Any calls today?"
"No, nothing but the usual. You came here to relax, I don't need to ask you. If not you'd still be out there somewhere. Now drink up."
He did so, looking out the window. Thunderclouds were rolling in; he knew it would be very wet before long. He sighed and rubbed his head again.
"Dami, just what is going on anyway?" Kat asked.
"It's kind of complex. I'm not even sure. I have to get my head in order." He leaned towards the footstool and fished around for the issue of the Tribune that contained the story about Cooper-Waite's body being found. He unfolded it and handed it to Kat. She took it and read the story.
"I heard about this," she said. "You can't live in a place like this without hearing how much snow you're supposed to get the next day. Are you trying to figure out who did this?"
"Read closer to the end."
She did so. The name Trooper Broderick jumped out at her.
She turned to face him again.
"Dami, what's going on here?"
He gave a tired smile. "He values a family name," he replied, "but when you've got a nephew like his..."
The others had returned to the college for the night. Psyche watched as Derrick stalked off to his room, the door shutting quietly behind him. Puck was already gone. She decided he must be in his own room, and headed past Derrick's room, which was near the stairwell, down the hall to the corner, turning left. Puck's room was 419, on the same floor; he lived on the other side of the building, bordering on the courtyard. Not all of the courtyard rooms had windows; Puck's was one such room. She wondered if he'd chosen that room for that purpose or not. It simply seemed he would have.
As she knew Puck had read all the personal files stored in the college computers, and thus knew just about all the private details of all the students, at least such private details as were stored in the computers. [Note--that's not an incomplete sentence, as best as I can tell. I think a comma after "As she knew" would clear it up.] She didn't have much of anything interesting in her file, she knew; born and raised in Massachusetts, moved to Michigan in 1988. That was about it. He should, however, know her birthday, blood type, height and weight, roommates, medical records... For some reason none of this really bothered her. She supposed that if it were stored on the computer it was open to prying eyes, or computer hookups.
She knew somewhat of him from what others had leaked out; he was from Eastlake, which was downstate; his father was a Methodist minister, but he'd broken a student's nose once for calling him "Preacher's Boy," so he must not have thought much of the relation; he'd been in a sort of gang or clique with three other teenagers and had gone against them somehow, ending up in the hospital in serious condition; afterwards she'd heard something hinted about him trying to kill himself, but she didn't know if that were true or not. [Note--Eastlake is a real place, but my version is fictionalized as I've never been there. The above is also unclear; it was PUCK, not his father, who broke somebody's nose when they called him Preacher's Boy.] Puck wasn't a communicative person, spending most of his time alone; he had few friends as just about everything he said was some kind of insult or insinuation. Psyche had seen D. J.'s reaction to a suggestion of his at the restaurant; she didn't know what he'd said, but she was sure D. J. had been justified in hitting him with the menu. Puck just didn't get along with people.
She reached Room 419 and stopped; there was no light beneath the door and no sound from within. Yet she was sure he'd entered the building. However, the door to Room 418 was open slightly; from the room handout she had she knew no one lived there; no one had a key. She pushed the door open tentatively and stepped inside.
Puck turned his head to look at her as she came in and offered that grin of his. She sensed it was a defensive measure. "Good afternoon. Hope you didn't have to look too long to find me."
"Don't you live next door?"
"As a matter of fact, I do."
[Note--starting here, this is how an adult-themed scene I wrote between these two goes--with moderate edits, of course.] "Why are you in this room?"
"I come here to look out the window and think," he replied. "As you may know my room has no windows."
His voice was always dripping with sarcasm. Psyche decided not to let it bother her. It evidently suited him just fine.
She crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, watching him watch the rain outside. In the distance there was the sound of thunder. The water was running in rivulets down the glass. They were both still for a long time.
It didn't seem he was going to talk unless she did first, so she finally spoke. "What do you think of this case?"
He glanced at her; it was meaningless conversation and he could tell. He only grinned ruefully. "Excellent work and lousy pay. The story of my life."
Seeing as he'd brought up the subject... "I heard you tried to kill yourself once."
He nodded. "True."
He seemed pretty open about it, as far as questions were concerned. "How?"
He pantomimed slitting his wrists and swallowing a handful of what Psyche assumed were pills. She knew he was too smart to overdose on aspirin and die a slow painful death; it must have been sleeping pills. "There was no gun available," he explained, as if in apology. "My dad didn't really believe in guns. But then again, I guess I wouldn't be standing here telling you of my wonderful near-death experience."
"How long were you in the hospital?" she asked, getting up and going over to join him."
He shrugged. "A few weeks. Couldn't really tell you 'cause I was out like a light. Then they stuck me in the community mental health center to see how successfully they could mess with my head."
He still spoke of it indifferently, though she could sense a measure of bitterness lurking beneath the surface, as if he'd simply wished to be left alone. He had an arm up against the windowframe and was tapping the glass. His shoulders looked tense. It was the natural thing to do; she reached out and massaged the nearer one, talking as she did so.
"Dr. Leja works out of a place like that. Not an institution but a kind of community health center. I suppose she's not a licensed psychiatrist so she can't prescribe drugs or anything, but--"
"I wish you wouldn't do that."
She stopped talking and looked at him. His eyes were closed and he was frowning at the window. His shoulders felt as tense as ever.
"I'm sorry. Does that bother you?"
"It doesn't exactly bother."
That surprised her. Just a massage of the shoulders... He still seemed upset, and she didn't see what harm she could do. They were alone, weren't they? And she thought she'd seen a flicker of interest when they'd first met with the group at the Family House Restaurant. She doubted that had been misinterpreted. She rubbed his shoulder and tried to loosen him up before he sprained something.
He turned to look at her now. His eyes were open and he looked as if he were mad at her.
"You don't want to do that, okay?" His voice was ice. "You don't want to get messed up with me."
"Who says I would?"
"I do."
But there was more in his voice than anger. It was as if some hidden part of him were in fact pleading with her to stay. Because he was tired of being alone. [Note--this is all TERRIBLY out of character for Puck, based on what I know of him now. HE IS A SOCIOPATH! Ugh.]
Maybe he wasn't a loner because he wanted to be or because he had an attitude problem. Maybe he was because he didn't want to be hurt.
Somehow she knew that was what it was. [Note--no it isn't!] Without saying another word she stepped forward and kissed him. He started to back away, but she took his hand and held it. He didn't move again, though their mouths were both open, exploring. It was several minutes before he broke free.
"You don't have to do this," he whispered, his voice thick.
"I know," she said back, her own voice low. She leaned forward to kiss him again. "But I should." [Note--yes, there is MORE to that scene, but not in THIS story!!]
Thunderstorms were more common in the summer in Michigan than in late fall; however, it was raining in many parts of the state, Eastlake included. One house set back in the woods was pelted with rain, all lights off but one. He was asleep in the chair with the lamp on beside him, his head tipped onto his shoulder. The only sounds were the rain and the distant rumble of thunder; yet soon enough it was shattered by a sharp ring from the phone on the endtable. He awoke with a start, throwing wild glances around; ever since late 1988 he'd been looking over his shoulder in case the police should be breathing down his neck. So far he'd heard nothing but what was originally broadcast on the news; it seemed he'd never said anything to the police, for some strange reason, but Ed Guyette wasn't taking any chances. The scum had sold them out before; what was to stop him from doing it again? He'd never been one to have morals.
The phone rang again. He glance [sic] at it, his breath slowing. Should he pick it up? He didn't know who would be calling at this hour; it wasn't right. Still, he had to find out who it was.
He picked it up, his hand shaking, and held it to his ear. "Hello?" he asked, his voice faint.
"Good evening, Mr. Guyette."
He started again. How did this guy, whoever he was, know his name?
"Who is this? How do you know where I live?"
"I'll be the one to ask the questions, Mr. Guyette, and don't interrupt me or else."
The threat was left vague, which made it even worse for him; he nodded, then, realizing whoever was on the other end couldn't see him, managed to force out a weak, "Yes."
"Good then. You know nothing of me but I know all about you. I also know of an incident you and two other friends were involved in in the fall of 1988. Don't hang up, Mr. Guyette, I know exactly where you live."
It was like the guy could read his mind! His hand shook harder but he nodded again. "G-go on."
"I also know where the fourth member of your little party lives. And I happen to know he's still involved in your favorite pastime--in a way."
"What do you mean?"
"You know very well who I'm talking about, don't you?"
That he certainly did. "Y-yeah."
"I believe you lost track of him not long after the incident."
"Yeah." His voice grew stronger as the anger rose up. "The son of a bitch moved off. I don't know where he is."
"You can rest easy, Mr. Guyette. I know exactly where he is. In fact, about sixty miles away from where I am right now."
"Where?"
"Remember, Mr. Guyette, I told you I was the one asking the questions." The voice was pure ice. Ed checked himself. "He's enrolled in a small college near Charlevoix. It's called Little Rock University. US-31. Not far from the Big Rock nuclear power plant." [Note--I must have believed in maps back then. Hm.]
Ed had found a pencil and was writing this down. Suddenly revenge was the only thing on his mind; he'd gotten a measure of it, but he wouldn't be able to rest till he knew the matter was taken care of for good.
"The reason I'm telling you this is because I know of your interest." He quit writing to listen. "Your little 'religion.' If that's what you call it."
"What do you know about me? Why are you telling me this?" he just about shouted, panicked.
This time the person answered. "I know all I need to. And so do you. Except that your friend is now involved in a police investigation of a murder committed in Cheboygan, Michigan. I'm calling you from there."
He wrote the name down, misspelling it as "Sheboygan" because he'd never heard of it.
"Can I get in touch with you?"
"I'll be sure to call you again. You have no interest in contacting me."
"What's this thing got to do with my--'interest'?"
"This crime has been labeled Satanic by a Trooper Broderick of the Michigan State Police. Perhaps he's right. And perhaps he should leave well enough alone. Your friend and some others are helping him. They should leave well enough alone as well. Are you getting my point now, Mr. Guyette?"
In the background, on the other end, he could hear a faint sound, rather strange and out of place; a rapid whip-click, whip-click. He had heard a similar noise before--it sounded like a switchblade. [Note--DING!]
"Yeah," he replied to the man's question, "I am."
"Good. You head over to the university as soon as you get the chance. Tell your old friend hi for me. And then head for Cheboygan and a payphone near the Holiday gas station. [Note--a real location. Don't know if they have a payphone there though...] I'll talk to you then." The phone clicked in his hand and buzzed. He held it for a minute, frozen. Then he brought it back down and set it back in its cradle. He lifted up the paper he'd written on.
US-31 power plant
Sheboygan murder
Holiday payphone
Benteen
Reaching over, he turned off the light. He felt he wouldn't be sleeping for quite a while. Not while he was still out there.
Damien awoke with a terrible crick in his neck. He sighed as he sat up in bed, rubbing it and looking first at the clock and then out the window. At least he hadn't had any dreams. That would have been just too nice. He got out of bed and pulled open the door, glancing down the hallway.
He knew Kat had already headed for LRU; it seemed rather roundabout but he knew he had to go there too, to get back in touch with the others. He sighed again and cast another look at the clock. It was still pretty early; maybe his new police friends wouldn't mind a little time at the college. The drive was long, but the restaurant-slash-club on campus, the Gen-X, was one of the best around.
He barely took note of the length of the drive, his mind was so preoccupied. He nearly ran two red lights and was glad of his new tires. It was about an hour and a half before he reached there. He located Kat at the dormitory and kissed her good morning.
"Seen Puck yet?" he asked, yawning. "I believe he came here with Psyche."
"No. I didn't know I was supposed to be looking for him. Are you feeling okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"
"You look really tired."
"Just got this crick in my neck. No bad dreams." He didn't bother looking up as Psyche jogged down the steps and disappeared into the gift shop where she worked off to their left. Kat did, and stared at her through the glass. "Listen, there's no need to get you involved in any of this. And I'm not holding anything back. It's just that things are pretty hectic the way they are--"
"Did you see her wrists?" Kat asked suddenly, her voice a horrified whisper. Damien quit rubbing his neck to glance at the gift shop windows. "God, her wrists!"
"What about her--"
"They're all blue! You said she came here with Puck?"
"Yeah, but I don't know about any--"
"What he did to her wrists! God, if he's been beating her up..." Kat turned away and headed for the shop.
"Kat," Damien called after her. He had a feeling that whatever the heck was going on was best left alone. However, she didn't listen, and he could see her confront Psyche inside the store; Psyche just stood and listened while Kat appeared to be alternately lecturing her and screaming at her in whispers. He sighed again and turned away, going to sit on the couch. Why wouldn't his neck stop aching?
A few minutes later both Psyche and Kat emerged from the gift shop. Psyche went back upstairs; Damien looked over his shoulder and saw that her wrists appeared to be bruised. Kat came back towards him, looking extremely shamefaced and embarrassed. She sat down.
"So how is she?" Damien asked, just to be polite.
"Her? Oh--it's nothing. Really. She's really fine. Oh God, do I feel embarrassed."
She put her head in her hands and shook it; Damien unconsciously started rubbing his neck again. He'd thought that one should be left alone. In fact, he hadn't even thought of any connection till Kat had brought it up.
"You're okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Jeez, I wish I would just mind my own business. Next time I try something like that I want you to slap me."
He bit his lip and forced himself not to respond to the inappropriate statement; there was a thumping on the stairs and this time Psyche came down again, putting on a jacket for the cold outside. She smiled at them both and disappeared through the door. A moment later Puck appeared, also putting on a jacket.
"You drove all the way here?" he inquired, casting a look at them. "Hi, Kat." He looked as if he hadn't slept much last night; Kat turned bright red, got up, and walked away. He watched her go, then turned to Damien.
Damien shrugged. "She's been having a bad morning. You look like you didn't get much sleep yourself."
"Truthfully, I didn't. You're headed for the Club?"
Damien was grateful he didn't elaborate. "Yeah. That's where you were going?"
"Right now. They always said breakfast was the most important meal of the day." He gave a crooked grin and pulled the door open. Damien let out one final sigh and followed.
They didn't have to wait too long before the cavalry arrived. Damien glanced up from the bar counter in the upper level of the Club, then tapped Sidras North's, the bartender's, shoulder. She didn't like being thought of as a "bartender," and didn't really fit the description anyway, with her perpetually curly blond hair, wide green eyes, and fashionable wardrobe; yet he could think of no other term for her.
"You might be getting a very big tip today," he told her; she smiled back and polished a glass. Her boyfriend, Dino Garris (also an old friend of Damien's) appeared from the kitchen. [Note--I completely forgot those two are an item, ha ha!]
"Hi, Dami!" Damien smiled at him. "Looks like you've brought company. Cops! Wow! Are ya working on a case?" He looked ready to jump over the counter.
"Kind of, Dino..."
"Cool! I wish I could help you out..." He smiled and spread out his arms, then gave Sid a quick kiss on the cheek. She giggled and swiped at him with a towel. There was so much sugar Damien wondered Dino didn't slip into a diabetic coma. [Note--there should probably be a "why" after "wondered."] "I'm pretty busy here, y'know. Gotta help Sid out. Jeez, lots of cops! Hey, it's KINCAID! Hi, Kinnie!" He waved frantically over the counter.
Kincaid, following the others to a table, smiled and waved back.
"What'll it be for everybody, Dami?"
"If nobody minds, I think omelettes would be good."
"Oh, omelettes! I can make omelettes! Can't I, my little omelette?" He made eyes at Sid, who swiped at him again.
"He's insufferable," Sid explained, going to get some glasses. She returned and placed them on the counter as Mulroy and Trooper Broderick came up. "Hi, officers! Anything to drink? We have tea, coffee, milk, soda, OJ, alcoholic beverages if you've got ID--" [Note--do they allow the sale of alcohol on college campuses?? Well, recall that somebody was going BOW HUNTING for rabbit on this campus in Luck O' The Irish...]
"Just coffee, thanks," Mulroy said, casting a quick glance at Broderick. Sid poured it and handed them the mugs. Mulroy joined Damien, who still waited at the counter.
"Any reason why you've called us all here?" he asked in a murmur.
Damien shrugged. "Just seems like it would be nice to take a break for breakfast, don't you agree?"
Mulroy's mouth quirked with a smile. [Note--slight misuse of a word. Quirk CAN mean "a sudden sharp twist or turn"--but it doesn't seem to be used as a verb. Still, I don't think this is the only time I've ever used it as such.] "I guess so. Never gave it much thought either way." He turned and went back to the table the others were appropriating.
There were several other students lounging around or eating; they noticed the group of police, as well as Dr. Leja and Temple, gathering at the table. Someone went to the jukebox. A moment later Bad Boys started blaring.
Mulroy looked up as the omelettes were brought out, frowning at the air. "Oh, that's funny. Who's the wiseguy?" He started looking around, trying to find a culprit. The other students in the Club were giggling and pointing.
"Why do I feel like I'm being laughed at?" Kincaid murmured. Damien knew it wasn't paranoia talking. They did make a rather conspicuous group.
"Hey, hey, you're Italian too!" Dino exulted when he saw Officer D'Amato's nametag. "Hi, hi, I'm Dino Garris, don't let the name fool ya, three-quarters Italiano."
D'Amato smiled and shook the hyperactive student's hand, said, "Hi," and started speaking in Italian. Dino was about to go into orbit; it was as if he'd never seen a "countryman" before. [Note--I think that should be "FELLOW countryman." Not that either Dino or D'Amato is from Italy.] Damien looked over in time to see Mulroy roll his eyes. Dino looked ready to jump up and down.
"Y'know, I didn't understand half of what you said!" he crowed at D'Amato. "But that was so cool--"
"You should pick up a really good language, Dino," Puck offered around a mouthful of egg. "Latin maybe. Da dextram misero." [Note--??? What the hell does that mean?? *Googles it* "Give your right hand to the wretched"? When did I learn Latin?!]
Temple stared at him. Puck just smiled back politely.
"His dad was a minister," Damien said, as if that explained everything.
"Yeah, and I got ests and ets pounded into me every day." [Note--?!?! *cough*--anyway--no, Puck is not implying child abuse, he's just being his usual snarky self.]
"You've still got those papers, Temple?" Mulroy asked the lawyer, who was now drinking his coffee. D'Amato got up and left the table to go to the jukebox.
"Yes, they're in a safe place, I don't believe you have to worry much about them. Whatever they are, I hope they're pertinent to this case."
"You didn't tell him?" Mulroy asked Damien.
The singer shrugged and rubbed his eyes. "It was late. Why don't you."
"Seems a 'friend' left these papers with Dami," Mulroy explained as D'Amato came back and sat down. The detective glanced at him but continued. "They're newspaper clippings on Scorpio-related investigations. Going back for years. Before we even got on the case."
"Before?" Temple suddenly looked much more interested.
Mulroy nodded and cut into his omelette. "Way before. We first got on it in the Seventies. B, at least. I jumped on the bandwagon later. There's also some reports that we were working on."
"You did reports on it?" D'Amato this time; Mulroy gave him an uneasy look, and unconsciously glanced around the restaurant, as if expecting to see men with guns huddling in every corner. Damien rolled his own eyes.
"Yeah, a few. Before it was shut down. 'Studies,' we mostly called 'em. Though apart from Broderick's profile we didn't really get much down."
"Much that we could use," Trooper Broderick clarified.
Bad Boys ended and I Don't Want Your Love replaced it. Mulroy's expression changed; now he looked at D'Amato as if he'd lost his mind.
"I like Duran Duran," D'Amato replied, frowning back.
"Are we going to use any of this?" Leja asked, picking up her napkin. She passed the salt to Psyche, and Damien saw that both she and a couple of the others at the table noticed her wrists. Leja just turned back to him for a response to her question.
"It's up to Trooper Broderick."
They all looked at him now. He looked at all of them in turn.
"I don't know how we obtained this information," he said. "As it could be illegal we may not be able to use it."
Mulroy looked offended; Damien hoped another confrontation wasn't coming on. "For God's sakes, B, it practically fell into our hands! Who cares how we got it!" D'Amato peered at him out of the corner of his eye but said nothing. "We needed the information and now that we have it you don't want us to use it?"
"I never said I didn't want to." Though he kept his voice level there was the hint of a warning in it; Mulroy backed off. "I'm saying we may not be able to."
Mulroy mumbled something under his breath; Damien could just barely make out "...by the book..." before he started fiddling with his napkin. He turned back to Trooper Broderick and held up his cup to take a drink.
"If it's useful, we should use it. But if we can make do without it and that's what you prefer I guess there's nothing we can do about it."
Trooper Broderick's eyes were searching him for any sign of insult. Damien managed to hold his gaze rather well. He considered it a good sign that the trooper broke the stare first, turning to face Temple.
"When we get back to Cheboygan you can share those papers with the others. I want us all to get a good look at them in the case that we can't actually use them on the case." [Note--eegh, what awkward phrasing!!]
It sounded pretty devious; everybody else's eyes were now searching him, though he'd returned his attention to his breakfast and was apparently not interested in whatever they thought.
"All right," Temple said simply.
Damien allowed an appropriate amount of time to pass before glancing up at the bar clock. "We should head back," he said. Immediately everyone started cleaning up. "Before it gets too late in the day to get anything done."
"Excelsior," Puck amened, and as they started to file out, paying Sid at the register, Damien vaguely remembered what that word meant. "Ever upward."
[Story incomplete]
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