Wand, Part Four

I lurched up. “What time is it?”

            Rachel was next to me, holding my hand. “Uh, two o’clock. At night. I mean, in the morning. It’s dark. Why?”

My head throbbed worse than this morning. I grabbed my bottle of water. “Oh god.” I gulped half of it down. “I might have—killed Mrs. Gore last night.”

Rachel dropped my hand. “Okay . . .”

Gaile was gone, her teacup empty. I didn’t have time to ask about her. I grabbed my phone. I’d stored Lorraine Gore’s name in my contacts list when she called me. My throat felt like dry parchment as the phone buzzed. One . . . two . . .

            “Hello?” Mrs. Gore’s voice sounded raspy. But alive.

            Thank god. “Mrs. Gore? It’s John—I mean, Tom Burton. Jurgen. We spoke yesterday?”

            “I remember. Why are you calling at—what? Two fifteen in the morning? What’s going on?”

            “They’re trying to kill you.” I leaned forward, my throat still dry. “Fletcher Mason and Joseph Leeds. They told me to put a wand next to your bed last night.”

            “Wait, what—” She caught her breath. “Who are you again?”

            I looked at Rachel. My memory was coming back, but it was jumbled. “Last night. I went to one of your meetings. As an initiate. I was in the front row. You said . . . you practice magic. Some of it dangerous. Where are you right now?”

            “I can’t . . .” She paused. “We can meet.”

“Okay.” I rubbed my head. “Where?”

            “I’ll call you.” She hung up.

            I leaned over, shuddering. Rachel nudged me. “What happened?”

            “Uhh . . .” I finished off my water. “I was at the meeting. Then I went upstairs, and they tested me for magical powers.”

            I stood up and started to pace, unsteady on my feet. “It was a wand. I was supposed to lift it from the desk, but I didn’t do it. They did. It was a scam. They wanted to convince me that I had powers. But then . . .”

            Rachel grabbed my arm. “What happened?”

            “Mr. Ying.” I told her about the short man. “Somehow he—blew my cover.”

            “Blew your cover? Are you James Bond?” Rachel punched my shoulder. “Who’s Mr. Ying?”

            I told her as much as I could remember now, from ringing the doorbell to opening Mrs. Gore’s door.  “Mason told me to take the wand and hide it next to her bed. And that’s all I remember.”

            “But you did it?”

            “I don’t . . .” The floor spun under my feet. Rachel pushed me back to her couch, letting me fall without hurting myself.

            “I’m sorry.” I gasped. “Sorry, sorry . . .”

Suddenly I remembered the last part of it. Placing the wand on Mrs. Gore’s nightstand. Her sheets smelled like lavender and roses.

            Mr. Ying was waiting for me outside in the hall.

“Very good.” He held out his hand. “Take this home. Keep it close to where you sleep.”

            “O-okay.” I took the wand. “Th-thanks.”

            “Forget everything.” He smiled. “Good night.”

            Rachel slapped me. “Snap out of it, asshole!”

            “R-right.” I rubbed my eyes. “Ying gave me the wand. Told me to forget. I don’t know . . .” I shuddered. “Oh, right.”

            “What?”

            I felt better, as if refreshed by a short nap, maybe because I’d finally found the last of my deleted memories. “He told me to put it next to where I sleep. But I slept on the couch. The wand—I found it next to my bed.” I shuddered. “So maybe that’s why I’m still alive.”

            Rachel lifted a fist to slug me. I braced myself. Then she sat down and wrapped her arms around me.

            “You idiot.” She kissed my cheek. “Can’t you ever behave?”

            I turned to kiss her lips. “Apparently not. Isn’t that why you like me?”

            “Maybe.” We held each other for a few minutes, and then Rachel stood up. “Let’s go to bed.”

My phone buzzed. “Hello? Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen.” It was Mrs. Gore. “Meet me in Hammond in two hours. We’ll talk.”

            “Uh, okay.” I sat up. “Is that, uh, Hammond, Indiana, or—”

            “Illinois. Off Highway 83. The McDonalds. Be there.”

            “Right.” I sat up and shook Rachel. “Come on. We’re getting breakfast.”

            “What?” She sat up. “What time is it?”

            I looked at my phone. “It’s only 8:30. Wait . . .” I had a few emails.

            “Eight-thirty?” She swung a pillow at me. “You jerk! I’ve got work to do! Where are we going? This better not take all day!”

            “Just a minute.” I sat by the edge of the bed in my boxers. Half of the emails were spam, two of them were from potential clients, but one came from Karl Leary, the lawyer I’d emailed yesterday about SunCorr LLC:

           

Hi Tom,

This looks like a fairly ordinary LLC. Looking at the documents, the only thing that seems interesting is that there are indications of a quarterly payout over the years since Richard Yount left the group. I’m attaching my comments with the docs you sent me.

            Let me know if you need anything else.

Best, Karl

“Okay.” I stood up. “First shower? Or should we share?”

            “Me first.” But Rachel punched my shoulder. “Make some coffee.”

Lorraine Gore sat in a corner table, gazing out at trucks in the parking lot.

            I sat down across from her while Rachel ordered McMuffins and hash browns and orange juice and coffee for us. “Good morning.”

            “Mr. Jurgen.” Mrs. Gore’s eyes were icy. “I have to be on my way. Unless you have something useful to tell me.”

            “I have questions to ask you.” She’d told me to come, hadn’t she? “You obviously aren’t dead from the wand.”

            “It was right there. I saw it the minute I went into the room.” She shrugged. “I left. I have a flight out of Indianapolis in four hours. With Ken gone, I’m done with New Sun and Suncorr.”

            “Then why . . .” I backed up. “So what about Rick Yount? Why was he receiving money from Suncorr years after he left?”

            Rachel came up with a tray. “Breakfast. Hi, I’m Rachel.”

            Mrs. Gore sipped her coffee as Rachel passed me food. Then she shook her head, as if disgusted at having to watch us eating breakfast. “Rick Yount knew about Angela Percy.”

            The young woman who’d died. For no reason. With a wand next to her. “So he knew your husband drugged and assaulted her.”

            “He didn’t drug her.” She sounded shocked. “He didn’t have to. There are hexes that are much more effective, and don’t leave any memory.” She sipped her coffee. “But Ken got sloppy with her. She remembered.”

            “So she had to die?” Suddenly my appetite was gone. But I gulped some coffee. “And Yount . . .?”

            “He delivered the wand. Ken told him it would only clear her memory, but when the little bitch died, Rick said he was leaving—and he wouldn’t tell Fletcher as long as Ken paid him $5,000 a month.”

            “Wait—” What? “Fletcher Mason?”

            She nodded. “He was her fiancé.”

            “And he stayed with New Sun?” That came from Rachel.

            “He didn’t know. Or he only suspected. And Suncorr was making money. Not from the members alone, but from the way we invested their money. And some of them do have powers, and those powers can be . . . addictive. That’s the real reason Fletcher stayed, probably. He couldn’t give the magic up.”

“So then . . . he must have found out?”

Mrs. Gore’s shoulder stiffened. “A few months ago Kenneth decided to stop paying Rick. He thought that since he’d never spoken up before, he wouldn’t now. I told him not to, but he wouldn’t listen.”

It made sense now. Yount must have finally told Mason about Angela Percy. Mason killed Gore with a wand, and then Yount. And then tried to finish it off by getting me to put a wand on Mrs. Gore.

“So what happens to New Sun now?” I asked.

She shrugged. “He can have the group. I have the money—enough to disappear for a long time. I hope he’s happy with it.”

Rachel and I looked at each other. She wasn’t eating either.

“What about Joseph Leeds?”

Mrs. Gore rolled her eyes. “I don’t care.”

“I mean, did he know about Angela Percy? Is he next?”

“No. He’s never been that close. I think he resents it, but he’s hooked on the magic.”

“Aren’t you?”

She smiled and finished her coffee. “I make my own magic.”

Mrs. Gore stood up. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a plane to catch.” She shoved her tray forward. “Would you throw that away for me?”

“Sure.” I stood up too. “One more question?”

She sighed. “Make it fast.”

“What about Mr. Ying?”

Mrs. Gore gave me a blank stare. “Who?”

“Short fellow? Tuxedo? He was upstairs with the initiates.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

I sat down and watched her walk away.

Rachel took half a bite of her McMuffin. “What do we do now?”

I sipped my coffee. We could hardly go to the police. Even the Vampire Squad would laugh me out of headquarters at this one.

I had the answer Ms. Yount was looking for. Not one she’d like, but at least maybe some closure.

But Rachel was right. We couldn’t just go home and forget all of this.

I gulped down the orange juice and grabbed my McMuffin. “I have an idea.”

We drove back home.

            The wand sat next to my bed. I wanted to break it up and burn it, but instead we packed it in foil and stuffed it in a cardboard box, and took it down to my storage locker in the basement.

“Okay.” I made more coffee up in my kitchen. “I’m still sleeping upstairs for the next few nights.”

            Rachel slugged my arm. “Any excuse, right?”

            I shrugged, tired. “Whatever. I can sleep on your couch if you want.”

            “Shut up.” She kissed me. “I’ve got work to do. Talk to you later?”

            “Sure.” I rubbed my arm.

            Rachel went upstairs. I washed my face, made more coffee, and sat in front of my laptop.

            I needed to call Mrs. Yount with my report. Then write it up and send it, with an invoice. I knew what had happened. But it just seemed incomplete.

            I looked at the clock. Mrs. Gore’s flight wouldn’t lift off from Indianapolis for another hour. I could wait that long to figure out what I needed to say.

At 1 p.m. I picked up my phone. Rachel was sitting next to me.

            “She should be in the air right now.” Rachel checked her phone. “Going—wherever.”

            “That’s fine.” I’d composed a report and made out an invoice for Mrs. Yount. But I wanted to do this first. I punched my phone.

            “Hello?” Fletcher Mason sounded sleepy. “Who is this?”

            “Hi, Fletcher.” I put my phone on speaker and leaned back. “This is John Burton. We met last night—before Mr. Ying wiped my memory?”

            “Uh, what?”

            I’d found Fletcher Mason’s number on the internet. I’d walked over to the nearest Best Buy to get a cheap, anonymous burner phone. Maybe Mason could trace it back to the real me, but I was betting he couldn’t.

            “John Burton.” I took a deep breath. “We met last night, at the meeting in Lorraine Gore’s house. I know about Angela Percy. I know you killed Ken Gore and Rick Young with the wands. I know you tried to killed Mrs. Gore last night—and me. I’ve got it all documented.”

            “You’re just—what are you talking about?”

            “Just listen.” I pressed the phone close to my mouth. “I’m sorry about what happened to your fiancé. But that’s over. Lorraine Gore says you can have New Sun, if that’s what you want. But I still have the wand you gave me last night—the one that was supposed to kill me today? If Joseph Leeds dies, you’re going to get it next to your bed one night.”

            I wasn’t sure I could carry through on that threat—but he wouldn’t know either.

“He deserved to die.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “He killed Angela. They all deserved to die . . .”

            “You’ve got your revenge.” I was exhausted and frustrated. “All right. So let it go.”

            “But she’s out there . . . somewhere. She knew all about it . . .”

            Mrs. Gore. I didn’t have any sympathy for her right now. I just wanted this to be finished.

            “Fletcher.” I took a breath. “Just let it go.”

            “I don’t know if I can.” Mason groaned. “It’s been so long.”

            Fine. “So do whatever you have to do. Just remember that I’ll be watching.”

            “Who are you again?” He seemed confused. “Were you . . .?”

            “Burton.” I had to keep with my fake name. “John Burton.”

            Rachel smirked.

            “Okay.” Mason chuckled. “If I see you again—”

            “You won’t.” I hung up.

            Rachel poured coffee. “You think that worked?”

            I shook my head. “I hope so.”

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