Wand, Part Two

I woke up on my couch with a splitting headache. My phone was buzzing. The sun was streaming through my blinds. “Uh . . . hello? Tom Jurgen—”

            “What happened to you?” Rachel’s voice was like a punch in my ear. “You didn’t call me!”

            “What?” I lurched up, rubbing my head. “What are you talking about?”

            “You didn’t pick up when I called you! You scared me to death!”

            “I was . . .” What time was it? I looked at the clock over my kitchen door. 8:30 a.m. Oh, hell, did I fall asleep? All night? “I don’t know. I must have . . .” I leaned over, feeling nauseous. My mouth was dry as a desert.

            “I’ll be right down.”

            Two minutes later I was gulping down water from a bottle when Rachel opened the door. “There you are! You were going to that meeting. New Sun. You didn’t drink anything, did you?”

            “No.” At least I didn’t remember having a drink—but then I didn’t remember anything. Could my medication cause blackouts? I’d have to ask Dr. Neral.

            She sat down next to me and put a hand on my forehead. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

            My brain felt fuzzy as I searched my memory. Cereal for breakfast yesterday, phone calls, the invitation. Mrs. Yount. Calling Rachel, eating a sandwich, sitting down to watch TV. After that—nothing.

            Mrs. Yount. I picked up my phone. “Hang on a second—Mrs. Yount? Tom Jurgen here. I just have one question, and it’ll sound kind of strange, but—did I call you last night?”

            “N-no.” She sounded suspicious. “We talked yesterday afternoon. You were going to that meeting. What happened last night?”

            “That’s the thing. I don’t remember.”

            I expected her to fire me on the spot. Instead, she took a deep breath, as if lighting a cigarette. “When will you have something to report?”

So I wasn’t fired? “Soon. I hope.”

“Very good.” Mrs. Yount hung up.

            I set my phone down. “I think she believed me.”

            “I think they wiped your memory.” Rachel lowered her hand and then slugged my shoulder. “Jerk.”

            “But I don’t remember . . .” Oh Yeah. I stood up and staggered to the dining room, where I opened my laptop. “How would that even work?

            “Magic. Witchcraft. They made that wand, didn’t they?” She followed me and leaned over my shoulder. “What are you looking for?”

            “The address.” I logged onto my alternate account and found the email invitation. “Did you have breakfast?”  I was starving.

            “What?”

            “I’m not a good detective on an empty stomach.” I pushed my chair back. “Fruit Loops or Lucky Charms?”

            “Yuck.” She made a face. “Don’t you have Frosted Flakes like a normal guy?’

It was a big house on a north side street full of big houses. I parked the Honda and stared at the wide lawn and the steps leading up to the front door.

            I would have bet one of my credit cards that I’d never seen the place before.

            Rachel and I got out. I was in my windbreaker and Rachel was in her denim jacket on a cool fall day. We walked up the steps and rang the doorbell.

            No answer.

            I rang again, over and over for five minutes. No one was asleep. Maybe they were ignoring me. Or maybe they’d left.

            If I were a real private detective—meaning one on TV—I would have picked the lock and gone inside to search. In real life, a nosy neighbor would call the cops and I’d go to jail.

            Speaking of nosy neighbors . . .

            “Now what?” Rachel put her hands on her hips. “Do we break a window?”

            I shook my head. “Now we talk to the neighbors.”

            She sighed. “At least I had breakfast.”

            I told the woman next door, plump and fortyish, that I had an appointment at the house but that no one seemed to be answering—both true statements, though not at the same time. “Have you seen anyone leave this morning?”

            “No.” She seemed relieved that Rachel and I weren’t Mormons or vacuum cleaner salespeople. “They had some kind of party last night. There were a lot of people coming in and out. They have them every other week or so. But I haven’t seen any of them today.”

            “What kind of parties?” Rachel asked.

            “Oh, I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I really don’t know Ms. Gore very well.”

            Mrs. Gore. I remembered her, at least. “It’s sad about her husband.”

            “Yeah.” She put her hand on the door. “I’m sorry, I’ve got a lot of work to do . . .?”

            “Thank you for your time.”

            The other neighbors—those that were home—told us pretty much the same thing. No one had seen Mrs. Gore or anyone else leaving the house last night or this morning.

            But the house was definitely deserted. So after an hour we got back in the Honda and headed back.

            “Thanks for coming with me.” I turned left at the corner.

            “I’m not letting you out of my sight.” She punched my shoulder, but not hard enough to interfere with my driving. “What now?”

            “Research.”

Rachel brought her laptop down to my apartment and we teamed up. I checked real estate records, and she looked up everything she could find on Kenneth Gore.

            The house was 80 years old, and it was held in the names of Kenneth and Lorraine Gore since they’d bought it 16 years ago. Property taxes were high. They had a permit to run a business out of it—Suncorr LLC, 14 years old. So I looked up Suncorr.

            As an LLC, there wasn’t much available on it. The license identified it as a private investment agency, without saying what it actually invested in. Its officers were Kenneth Gore (president and CEO), Lorraine Gore (VP and COO), Fletcher Mason (chief financial officer), and Joseph Leeds (secretary).

            But when I looked at past filings for the permit, I found a familiar name: Richard Yount, secretary.

            A dive into the internet turned up very little on Suncorr itself. It was listed on the usual websites that rated investment services, but without any comments from users. I did find a notice from nine years ago that Yount was no longer associated with the firm. Nothing about Leeds, whoever he was, coming on board.

            I emailed Karl Leary, a lawyer who handles my business issues, I sent attachments and asked him if he could tell me anything about Suncorr that wasn’t obvious from the documents.

            I poured more coffee. “Anything?”

            “Oh, lots.” Rachel snorted. “Starting with his obituary.”

            “So, tell.”

            She switched screens. “Age 64. Cause of death, unknown. No kids. Worked for CNA Insurance and Aon Consulting before starting his own company, Suncorr, in 2003. The thing is, it looks like he got fired before starting Suncorr. There’s an old press release online that just says he’s no longer there, referring clients to some other guy.”

            I nodded. “I’ve got some stuff on Suncorr. What else?”

            “He married Lorraine Ogilvy in 1998. She has an interesting history.” She sipped her coffee. “Her parents died in a fire when she was 17. I found their obituaries. Lorraine inherited a lot of money—more than a million dollars.”

            “Did she kill her parents?” It was an obvious question. I’m a detective, after all.

            Rachel cocked an eyebrow at me. “They said the cause was faulty wiring in the house. Lorraine was at a friend’s when it happened. So . . . could be.”

            “Anything else?”

            “Studied finance at Northwestern, got a job as a loan officer at a bank. Except . . .” She turned her screen toward me. “According to her LinkedIn profile, she took a gap year building houses in Africa. Here are a few pictures.”

            The young woman in the photos had long black hair and a sharp chin. She wore shorts and a vest over a gray T-shirt, and her skin was tanned. She carried a hammer, smiling at the camera.

            “Stop gawking at her legs.” Rachel shifted to another picture. “I just found this.”

            Lorraine was sitting by a nighttime fire, her legs crossed, talking to a young African man. He was holding . . . “Can you zoom in?”

            Rachel tried, but the image didn’t get much clearer. Still, the object looked familiar. “So, do you think it’s a wand?”

            It looked like a short tree branch, with yellow cloth tied around the tip. Rachel nodded. “Could be.”

           

I made grilled cheese sandwiches while Rachel did more research. “I think I found something.”

            “We’ll make a detective out of you yet.” I sat next to her and nudged my knee against her leg.

            “Stop it.” She slapped my knee and picked up her sandwich. “Anyway, 11 years ago, this girl named Angela Percy was found dead for no apparent reason in her apartment on New Year’s Eve. The article lists her employer as Suncorr.”

            I looked. The New Year’s Eve angle was the news hook. Friends of Angela Percy, 29, had come to pick her up for a party. When she didn’t come to the door or picked up her phone, they got a landlord to do a safety check.

            They found Percy dead in a chair, the TV on. No cause of death was found. The article said that she’d been employed at a company called Suncorr as an IT specialist.

            The article had a photo. Angela Percy had been blond, cute, and way too young to die for no reason.

            “So.” I bit into my sandwich and wished for a beer. “Could be completely unrelated.”

            “Could be.” But Rachel wasn’t convinced. “There’s not much on her. This was 11 years ago. If she had a Facebook page in those days, it’s been taken down. I’ve got a possible number for her parents.”

            Great. Calling grieving parents was lower on the list of things I enjoyed than stalking vampires.

            But it was my only lead right now. And after 11 years, maybe the parents wouldn’t be hostile.

            So I called the number.

            “Hello?” A woman answered.

            “Hi, ma’am.” I plunged right in. “My name is Tom Jurgen. I’m a private investigator doing research on an organization called Suncorr. I believe that your daughter Angela once worked for them?”

            A long pause. “My daughter’s dead.”

            I sighed. “I know. And I’m sorry for your loss—”

            “Just because it was 11 years ago doesn’t mean it goes away.” But she sighed too. “What do you need to know?”

            “Anything about her employers—Kenneth Gore and his wife Lorraine? Or Richard Yount, Fletcher Mason, or Joseph Leeds?”

            Hesitation. “Ken. He was her boss.”

            “What about him?”

            “I can’t . . .” She groaned. “She told me not to say anything about him. But then she was . . . gone.”

            I waited. Pushing too hard could go wrong. I looked at Rachel, eating her sandwich. Then I took a deep breath and went forward.

            “Ma’am? Anything you can tell me might help. Kenneth Gore is dead. I can’t tell you much about the case—”

            “Good.” Her voice was harsh. “I’m glad—I shouldn’t say that, but good. He—he hurt my daughter. He was a bastard.”

            “Okay.” I held my voice steady. “So can you, uh, elaborate on that?”

            “He . . . gave her drugs, and then he  . . . raped her. Many times.”

            Oh god. “I’m so sorry.”

            “She quit. Just before New Year’s. She told me she was going to get a lawyer. And then . . .”

            I waited while Rachel stared at me. Finally I said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Percy, but I have to ask one more question and then I’ll leave you alone.”

            “That’s okay.” I heard a sniffle. “Go ahead.”

            “In your daughter’s personal effects, was there anything like . . . a pencil with some string tied around it?”

            “A pencil . . .” She sniffled again. “Yeah, I think so. I wondered what it was. My husband—I couldn’t clean out the apartment, but my husband and some of our friends packed it up. When I asked him about it, he said it was next to the chair where she . . .” Her voice trailed off.

            “All right. Thank you for your help.”

            “Can I ask . . .” She coughed. “What’s this about?”

            I hesitated. “I can’t tell you right now. But if I get the answers I’m looking for, and permission from my client, I’ll call you back.”

            “Okay.” She sighed. “Please do that.”

           

I told Rachel what I’d gotten. Her face grew grim. “Okay, I can see killing Gore for revenge, but what about Yount?”

            “He left New Sun around the time that she died. Maybe . . .” I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

            So I called Catherine Yount again.

            “Yes?” She sounded tired. “I’m in the middle of dealing with documents and lawyers. Do you have something to tell me?”

            “Questions.” I took a breath. “Did your husband ever talk about—”

            Rachel jabbed my arm. “Put me on.”

I winced. “Mrs. Yount, I’d like to bring my assistant, Rachel Dunn, into the conversation. She can help.” I hit the speakerphone.

            “Hi, Mrs. Yount.” Rachel leaned forward. “I work with Tom. Can we talk?”

            “Sure.” She laughed. I heard a cigarette lighter flick. “What is this all about?”

            I tried to straighten out my thoughts. “Okay. Kenneth and Lorraine Gore. Have you heard those names?”

            “Ken? Yeah, He was part of New Sun. Lorraine? I don’t know.”

            “What abut Angela Percy?”

            “No. I never—what’s going on?”

 “I don’t exactly know yet. But . . . maybe I should explain the reason for my odd question this morning.”

            She inhaled. “What are you talking about?”

            “I was supposed to go to a New Sun meeting last night. But I don’t remember anything at all about what happened. I think that somehow my memory was erased. I know that sounds weird, but—”

            “No.” Her voice was sharp. “Rick said—when I said that he didn’t talk about New Sun much, it was because he said he didn’t remember a lot of it. So I didn’t push it, because it didn’t matter to me when we met. At church. But he had nightmares and headaches for a long time.”

            “What kind of nightmares?” I still had a headache from this morning.

            She hesitated, “Maybe you should come here. I don’t think I can talk about this over the phone.”

            I looked at Rachel. She nodded. “We’ll be right there.”

            “Three o’clock, please? I have yoga in half an hour.”

            It was only 1:15. Where had the morning gone? “We’ll be there. Thanks.”

           

Catherine Yount lived in a condo overlooking Lake Shore Drive. Sailboats swerved on the waters of Lake Michigan. She poured white wine into two tall glasses and coffee in a big cup for me. Then she lit a cigarette.

             “I met Rick at church.” She was wearing sweatpants and a long black sweater. “We had coffee, and then we went out for coffee. Then we—well, we didn’t actually fall in love, but we decided to get married. We had . . . some of the same baggage. Divorce. Kids. He seemed . . . damaged, and I guess that attracted me. I thought I could help him.”

 “What do you know about Kenneth Gore?”

“Not much.” She sipped her water. “I met him once or twice. Before Rick and I got married. He had  . . . I didn’t like the way he looked at me.”

“What about your husband?” I had to ask. “What did he know?”

She stabbed her cigarette into an ashtray, “What exactly are you asking?”

I leaned forward. “Kenneth Gore started a company called Suncorr, which appears to be related to New Sun, 14 years ago. Angela Percy worked there in an IT capacity. Gore drugged her and sexually abused her, and after she quit, she was found dead in her apartment for no reason, with one of those wands next to her.”

I paused to sip her coffee. It coffee had a strong nutty taste. “Your husband quit New Sun right around the time she died, 11 years ago. So, did he know anything about what happened to her?”

I braced myself. I was basically accusing her husband about colluding with a sexual predator. Once again, I expected Mrs. Yount to fire me on the spot.

Instead she lit another cigarette. “I didn’t know much about New Sun. I was never interested in it. I didn’t even ask why he left. But a few months later, I did ask him.”

She exhaled smoke toward the window. “He couldn’t remember.”

Rachel and I glanced at each other. “What else did he forget?” she asked.

“He didn’t remember any of the magic he showed me. Lifting the teacup? Gone. He didn’t remember most the people he knew there. He did remember Ken Gore, and a few other people. He didn’t remember where they met. For a few months he had . . . nightmares, and then headaches the next day. Eventually they stopped, and I stopped asking.”

“Did he ever mention Gore’s wife, Lorraine? Or two people who were involved in Suncorr—Fletcher Mason or Joseph Leeds?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Fletcher Mason . . . maybe. The other two—I didn’t even know Ken Gore was married.”

Then she opened her eyes again. “Where does this leave us?”

“I must have found out something last night that they’re scared of.” I looked at Rachel. “Do you know anyone who could get my memory back?”

She sighed. “Maybe. I’ll call around.” When Mrs. Yount stared at her, she said, “Iron Sun aren’t the only people who play with magic. I know some people who do more than play.”

Mrs. Yount picked up her wine. “Don’t do anything dangerous. Really. This is just—I want to find out what happened to Rick, but it’s not worth it if anyone gets hurt.”

I couldn’t agree more. I finished my coffee and stood up. “We’ll be in touch.”

Rachel spent the drive home calling her friends. She does know a lot of people in Chicago’s paranormal community—wizards, witches, psychic advisers and the like.

            “My friend Gaile can do it tomorrow afternoon.” She slid the phone back into her pocket. “She’s a telepath.”

            “I just hope she won’t steal my passwords.” I stopped for a red light. “Or talk about my browsing history.

            She slugged my arm with a laugh. “I know all about supermodelsinbikinis.com, Tom.”

            “Oops.”

            Rachel had work to do—she’s a graphic designer when she’s not helping me—so she went upstairs for dinner. I ate a sandwich, did some work, and watched TV until 9:30. By then I was too sleepy to keep my eyes open.

            I can stay up all night if I need to, or go to bed at 8:30 if I don’t. I assumed the memory erasure was knocking my out.

            I brushed my teeth, took off my shoes and my shirt, and started unbuckling my belt. I reached for the bottle of water next to my bed—

            And found a wand sitting next to it.

            I dropped the water, grabbed my shirt and my shoes, and ran.

            Upstairs I pounded on Rachel’s door with one fist while calling her on my phone. “Let me in—please!
            “You’ve got a key.” But I waited until she’d pulled her two deadbolts and chain. “What’s the—”

            “There’s a wand next to my bed.” I pulled my shirt back on.

            “Oh Christ.” Rachel pushed past me. “You stay here. I’ll—”

            “No!” I put a hand on her arm. “Stay away from it. We don’t know how it works.”

            She wanted to argue, but after a moment she relocked her doors. “Okay.” She walked into her bedroom where her office is set up and came back with her phone. “Hi, Gaile. I know it’s late, but this is an emergency. Is there any way you can come over tonight? . . .  I know, I know, but Tom’s in trouble.  . . . Not that kind of trouble. Someone’s trying to kill him.”

            I winced. But it was true. I’ve faced vampires, demons, and angry ghosts, but the simple threat of the wand had me rattled more than ever before. At least you could fight a monster. I had no idea how the wans worked. How close did it have to be? Would it kill me if I tried to destroy it? Would it kill Rachel?

            “Okay, thanks.” Rachel hung up. “She’ll be here in 45 minutes. It’s going to cost extra.”

            “I left my checkbook upstairs.”

            She laughed. “That’s okay. You’ll owe it to me.”

Gaile wore a scarf over her head and bronze bracelets on her wrists. She hugged Rachel and kissed her cheek, and then looked at me. “Hi. I’m Gaile.”

            “Tom Jurgen.” We shook hands. “Thank you for coming.”

We sat down in front of Rachel’s TV. She poured steaming tea for Gaile as I sipped from a water bottle.

“What’s going on?” Gaile sipped her tea.

“I was supposed to go to a meeting of some kind of magical society last. But I don’t have any memory of it.” I glanced at Rachel. “She believes I got my memory wiped.”

“You’re sure you went?”

It was a reasonable question. “I don’t have any memory of last night past late afternoon. And no, I wasn’t drinking. I take medication for anxiety, but it’s never caused blackouts before.” I’d called Dr. Neral.

Gaile nodded. “I want you to sit comfortably, close your eyes, and relax. Don’t speak. I’m going to hold your hand. You may fall asleep.”

I closed my eyes and nodded. Rachel patted my shoulder. Usually she slugs it. I hoped it was a good sign.

I felt Gaile’s hand on mine, and listened to her breathing. I tried to relax. Think calm thoughts. The waves on the beach at Lake Michigan . . . Rachel lying next to me . . . a full moon in a midnight sky . . .

Wand, Part Three

I rang the doorbell, repeating, “John Burton . . . John Burton . . .” under my breath. It was the name I was using. I’d picked it because it sounded a little like “Tom Jurgen,” so I hoped I’d respond to it quickly.

            I’m not used to going undercover.

            The door opened. A short man looked up at me. He wore a tuxedo, like that creepy butler on The Prisoner. “Name?”

            “T—John. John Burton.”

            He checked an iPad. “Burton. Okay.” He ushered me inside.

            He led me into a large dining room lined with folding chairs. About twenty people sat in a semicircle. Three people sat at the desk in the corner—two men, one woman.

            The small man pointed to a chair in the front row. “There. For the initiates.”

            Feeling like the new kid in first grade, I sat next to a middle-aged woman in slacks and a sweater. “Hi. I’m John.”

            She ignored me.

            After 15 minutes three more people arrived and sat down. The short man closed the dining room door and stepped up behind the desk.

            The woman poured herself a glass of red wine and stood up. “Well, welcome. For the new people, I’m Lorraine Gore.”

            Mrs. Gore. In her fifties, with black hair and a sharp chin, wearing a gray silk blouse and a long dark skirt.

            “This is Fletcher Mason.” She nodded to the man on her right, balding, in his forties, wearing a maroon cable-knit sweater and jeans. The man on the other side was Joe Leeds, younger, in a herringbone jacket and a loose necktie.

            “We are the Triumvirate of New Sun.” Mrs. Gore sat down again. “That means we decide who is invited to join, and who stays with us. Our decisions are final. Nothing that happens here leaves this house, this group. The penalties are—severe.”

            Fletcher Mason nodded. Joe Leeds looked bored.

            Mrs. Gore sipped her wine. “For the newcomers, this group was founded by my late husband, Kenneth Gore. Since his recent death, I’ve taken the lead, with help from Fletcher and Joe. We practice magic—some of it dangerous.”

            A man behind me laughed.

            Mrs. Gore smiled. “Tonight I’ll be teaching our members a new spell. In the meantime, you initiates will be interviewed upstairs. Good luck to all of you.”

            The short beckoned from the door. The women next to me and two other men stood up and followed out of the room and up a flight of stairs.

            I’d gotten lucky. Mrs. Gore didn’t know what I looked like, but she might have recognized my voice from our phone conversation.

            A row of chairs sat outside a door. The short man looked at his list and then arranged us—the middle-aged woman first, me last. Then he left us alone.

            A moment later Joseph Leeds opened the door. How had he gotten up here? Teleportation—or maybe just a back seat of stairs?

            Leeds looked at the woman. “Ann Jarson?”

            The woman stood up and followed him into the room.

            I turned to the man next to me, a young Hispanic man. “Hi. I’m John.”

            “Nick.” He rubbed his hands together. “Man, I can’t wait.”

            “What do you suppose they’ll ask?”

            “They’ll want to see what we can do.” The other man, a Caucasian in his 30s, folded his arms. “A friend of mine went through this. He didn’t get in. He wouldn’t talk about it much, but that’s what he told me.”

            What we can do? Well, I couldn’t do any magic, so that meant I wouldn’t be offered a membership. At least I wouldn’t have to decide whether to ask my client to spend that kind of money.

            Maybe I could get information out of it, though.

            Ann Jarson emerged from the room 15 minutes later, looking happy. Mason held the list this time. “Norman Klein?”

            The other man got up and followed him inside.

            Nick looked nervous. I wished for a magazine as we waited.

“Nick Guarini?”

            Nick stood up, still rubbing his hands, and flashed me a grin. “Wish me luck.”

            I nodded. “Good luck.”

            I passed the time reviewing my story. John Burton, heard about the group from—

            After five minutes Nick came out, shaking his head. “Oh, well.”

            “Better luck next time?”

            “There isn’t a next time.” It was Leeds again. “All right, John Burton?”

            I almost didn’t respond, until I remembered that I was “John Burton.” I stood up. “That’s me.”

            Inside was an office that had probably once been a bedroom. Leeds and Mason sat behind a short black desk. A laptop computer sat on one corner. The short man stood behind them, hands behind his back.

Mason leaned back in his chair. “So, Mr. Burton.” He smiled. “How did you hear about Iron Sun?”

            I remembered my story. “A friend told me about it. He was never here, I mean. He heard about it from some guy named Yount.”

            Mason blinked. “Rick Yount?”

            I shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t remember. Anyway, I tested positive for ESP in college, so I thought this might help me get better at it. What kind of dangerous magic do you guys do?”

            “Maybe you’ll find out.” Leeds tapped a key on the laptop.

            “Let’s try a test.” Mason leaned down and opened a drawer under the desk. “Look at this.”

            It was a wand. White string wrapped around a long pencil. Just like the one I’d destroyed. The wand Mrs. Young had found next to her husband’s body.

“Wow.” I sat forward. “What is that?”

“Lift it.” Mason set the wand on the desk. “Two inches.”

            Oops. “Do I get in if I do?”

            He smiled. “It’s a start.”

            “Okay.” I leaned forward and stared at the wand, wondering how long I could draw this out. At this rate I’d be home in time for the 10:00 news, with nothing to show for it.

            I frowned, creasing my forehead, trying to look as if psychokinesis was only slightly harder than algebra. Okay, come on, you can do this . . . you can do it . . . come on . . .

            Then the wand rose into the air.

            I blinked. Did I do that? I leaned further forward, holding my breath.

            “Very good.” Fletcher tapped some keys. The wand dropped.

            I sat back. Okay. I was starting to see it now.

            I hadn’t lifted the wand with my mind. One of them had—Mason or Leeds. Or maybe the short man behind them.

Which meant that this whole setup was a scam. Draw people in, convince them they have psychic powers, and then get a whole lot of money from them to keep them coming.

            Some of them obviously did have the powers, though. There were no wires lifting up that wand. Which meant that these guys could be dangerous.

            Dangerous magic. That’s what Mrs. Gore had promised.

            But what did this have to do with Richard Yount? Had he threatened to blow the deal? Or was something worse behind his death?

            “All right.” Mason backed his chair up. “Mr. Ying?”

            The short man stepped forward. “Hello, Mr. Burton.”

            “Uh, hi.”

“Would you object if Mr. Ying held your hand for a moment?”

            The short man stepped forward. Mr. Ying, presumably. “I suppose not.”

            He walked around the desk silently and held out his hand. I put mine in his palm.

            Immediately I felt queasy. Mr. Ying gazed into my eyes like he could see past them into my brain. Uh-oh. I felt my body go slack.

            I heard them talking, but I couldn’t make out the words. Except for Mason at the end: “All right. It’s time.”

            Mr. Ying let my hand go. “Thank you.” he smiled.

            I sat up. “So? Now what?”

Leeds slid the wand across the desk. “You’ll be in if you do this.”

            I sat up. “Do what?”

            “It’s a test.” Mason tapped two fingers on the desk. “Listen to me.”

            “Okay.” My voice sounded far away. “I’ll be in, right?” Suddenly being accepted into Iron Sun was the most important thing on my mind.

            “Yes.” Mason slid the wand toward me. “I want you to pick this up and take it two doors down on the right. Then I want you to put it into the nightstand next to the bed. Then you can leave. Don’t talk to anyone. Just go home and forget.”

            “F-forget?” My head swirled. This wasn’t right. Was it? “I have to . . .”

            “Just do it. Everything will be fine.”

            I stood up, suddenly dizzy, as if I’d been siting for a lot longer than 10 minutes. I reached out and clutched the wand. “O-okay.”

            Out the door. Down the hall. Second door to the right. The floor spun under my feet.

            What was I doing? I felt like I was watching myself from a distance, and at the same time I could only see directly in front of my eyes.

             I turned the doorknob.

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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