Love Spell (7 page)

“Please tell me you haven’t used your cell phone since yesterday,” she said with unexpected fervor.

“Nope. And it’s dead now. I’m at a payphone at Safeway in San Leandro. By the way, what are you doing tonight, Molly?”

“Clint, I…” She stopped short for a few moments. “You say you’re in San Leandro? Stay put. I’m coming to you.”

Clint hated lying to Molly. There were some people that you could bend the truth with and never feel an iota of guilt. Molly was too sharp to fleece easily even if he
hadn’t
cared about being honest. And he had to admit he was really starting to like her—even more since she’d come rushing back into his life like a business-suit hurricane in a BMW. Sometimes, though, it really was better to hide the truth. His real regret was that he’d felt the need to go around her in the first place.

Over the clink of silverware and crystal, Clint speared another bite of one of the best pork chops he’d ever had. Steam wafted from a china mug of chamomile and mint tea with a hint of honey; he hated the beverage but he’d ordered it for Molly’s sake. Drinks aside, he had to hand it to her for her tastes in food. He also appreciated her generosity. On his budget, he was unlikely to ever see the inside of a café like this in anything but pictures. The post-modern artwork arranged around the dining wasn’t his style (and he didn’t recognize the artist), but the joint had been done in mild earth tones and dark wood paneling that made it feel relaxed instead of depressing in the meager light of orange-glass sconces and a smattering of elegant Mediterranean chandeliers.

In his left hand he held the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe. With his right hand, he moved a rook to E-5. The waiter had seemed a bit baffled when he’d inquired after a chessboard but, surprisingly, one had been available. It had been set on a serving stand alongside their dining table.

Molly glanced at the rook and cocked an eyebrow for a moment. One of her pawns was moved into a sacrificial position between Clint’s rook and one of her bishops. Clint obliged her by taking the pawn and, as he found out moments later, her bait.

“Checkmate,” she said, with a perfectly straight face, turning to sip from her tea.

Clint eyed the set up, and agreed with her. With anyone else he may have tried arguing the point. With Molly, chess was only a matter of facts. Actually,
everything
was a matter of facts with her, and Clint was never quite sure about the strange attraction he felt toward her. He preferred a girl with a bit more imagination, who wasn’t afraid to show a bit of vulnerability, and whose voice was sweet. Molly was none of these, and yet he found himself drawn to her all the same. Perhaps some poetry would sweeten her on him?

“Once upon a midnight dreary,” Clint started, as he set about rearranging his chess pieces, “while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. ‘‘Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door—‘Only this, and nothing more.’”

Molly looked up at him, her chess slaves already back in their proper positions, eagerly awaiting their mistress’ next command. “You never read it that well in high school either, Clint.
The Raven
isn’t supposed to be sung.”

Clint stuck his tongue out at her, and he thought he saw her stiffen for the briefest of instants. The motion was gone almost before it had happened, and he decided he’d merely imagined it. He didn’t think she really offended quite
that
easily.

“Yes, well it rhymes,” he retorted. “Not like the emo stuff, where some kid vomits his depression all over the page and then slices his arm a few times to penalize himself for his mere existence. I like rhymes, and when I think of rhymes, I tend to think of songs. And music. Songs aren’t much without music.”

“Your insights are mind-blowing, Clint. You should write a book.”

He grinned despite himself, and spent some long moments letting his gaze penetrate her eyes and memorize her face. She held his stare without blinking. It had been far, far too long since he’d seen her, but something inside him moved him to want to see her much more often.

“I dreamt about you last night,” he said.

That invoked her usual look of inquisition, even as she sipped her tea.

“Just a cameo,” Clint replied, before mirroring her sip. “Nothing naughty at all. I was fishing on a dock, and you climbed out of the water and sat next to me on the dock without saying anything.”

“Are you asking for an analysis?”

Clint shook his head. “A dream’s a dream. Weird projections of the mind when you’re passed out in bed. No real reason to put stock in them.”

Molly frowned deeply. “You really believe there’s no merit to subconscious activity?”

He shrugged. “Never really had a reason to.”

She peered at him through half-lidded eyes, and his pulse count doubled, and he hoped she couldn’t see the blush he felt.

“There’s far more to the mind than most of us can even conceive,” she nearly whispered. “What’s going on in your dreams might not seem important to you. That doesn’t mean it isn’t important at all.”

Clint sat up in surprise. “Are you saying I should have had the fillet of sole instead of the pork?”

The corners of her mouth turned down slightly. “Clint, how often do you dream?”

He tapped his chin in thought for a moment. “Not really sure. Maybe a few times a week. I don’t usually remember my dreams.”

Her stare intensified. “Have your dreams changed since the incident with the gypsy?”

Clint thought again before answering. “Like I said, I don’t really remember them much to begin with. And dreams are pretty random by nature. So…, what’s the difference between one kind of random and another, right?”

“Clint? I need you to start telling me your dreams.”

That sent a pleasant shiver through him. “Are you asking for a starring role?”

She paused, unexpectedly, on a word. Quickly she slipped a small forkful of her watermelon and crab salad into her mouth and chewed furiously.

“Speaking of dreams,” he said, “whatever happened with the whole photojournalism thing? You were the
queen
of that stuff in high school.”

“Aspirations change.”

“Let me guess. April Fools’ Day, senior year. Is that what put you off?”

She glared at him. “That was your idea, not mine. You never did apologize for getting me kicked out of the Journalism Club.”

“Principal Winters did that,” Clint replied with a shrug. “He didn’t seem too picky about placing blame once he found out you were the one behind the Photoshopping job.”

She chewed through another bite of salad before adding, “You’re at risk.”

“Because I pulled pranks at high school or because I remember dreams of fishing?”

She waved it away impatiently. “We’ll discuss dreams later. I brought you here for more important things than dreams or Poe or chess. I brought you here because I need you—”

Clint wouldn’t have been surprised if the room had started to actually glow under the automatic smile that exploded across his face.

“But not in the way you seem to think,” she quickly added.

Clint frowned. Why couldn’t women ever speak in a clear, straightforward manner?

“Jane has actively tried to kill you,” Molly said. “I suspect she hasn’t given up.”

There
, he thought.
That was simple and clear, wasn’t it?

“That ain’t news, Molly.”

Still the events of the past twenty-four hours had been enormously disturbing. From all indications, the effects of his cursed Touch upon Jane had gone wrong by orders of magnitudes more than he thought possible.

“There’s more to it,” Molly continued. “I can’t discuss the details, but please believe that your survival is vital not only to putting an end to Jane’s recent… odd behavior…, but also vital to stemming a rising tide of organized crime in this area.” She waved a finger in a circle, indicating the region at large.

Clint grimaced. How had a case of “love gone wrong” turned into an installment of
The Godfather
? “Wait, wait,” he said. “You’re telling me that Jane is in with the Maf—”

Molly hushed him immediately. “I’m not at liberty to discuss this here, Clint. I’m on my lunch break. I’m taking you back to your hotel as soon as we finish here. We’ll review the matter in private another time. I’m warning you now because your ignorance is a liability.”

Hefting her purse from the floor, she dug out an old model cell phone and phone charger. “Keep this on you at all times. Keep it properly charged. I’m on speed dial. I
will
be checking in on you. Call me only if necessary otherwise.

“Suffice it to say, you have become—for better or worse—a material witness to Jane’s criminal activity. You
will
stop taking stupid risks. Yesterday, you entirely ignored my advice. I cannot afford that. I need you alive.” She stabbed her salad fiercely and rammed an overly large bite between her teeth, chewed with vigor, and swallowed hard.

“For now,” she said, relaxing slightly, “keep eating, and ignore Jane. Enjoy the date.”

More pleasant shivers tickled Clint’s spine. It was official: he was really, truly on a date with Molly Weatherpound. Enough said.

“I’ll be good,” he said. Therein was the lie. Well, actually, it was more of a half-truth. Aware that he was marked for death, taking precautions was wise. His plans, however, were not served by confining himself to a budget hotel room. He needed help finding Fey, and he felt most comfortable interviewing his prospects in person. Clint had a hunch that if his gambit played out well, he’d solve not only his problems, but whatever issues Molly was hiding from him as well. Still, she seemed willing to give him more answers if he was patient. He could live with that.

He took another bite of his pork chop and asked, “So, dinner tonight?”

SEVEN

Ignoring Molly might have been a stupid thing to do.

But what’s life without a little risk?
Clint asked himself as he hobbled out of his newly-repaired car and into San Francisco’s financial district. After Molly had dropped him off, he’d endured another battery of stern warnings to stay put. He even complied with her instructions for a full twenty minutes before hopping a bus to the mechanic’s shop to collect his ride. A short drive from the garage to downtown, and he was in business.

The motion of commerce and culture blurred around him in human form. Men in designer suits, carrying briefcases worth more than Clint earned in a year, mingled with twenty-somethings in shorts and windbreakers, shouldering rucksacks that probably only set them back a few meals. A digital stock ticker on the side of a bank showed the Dow was up 2.1 points this afternoon. A man on a folding chair coaxed tunes from a cello. Across the street, plastic barricades gave a cluster of city workers a place to pretend to be busy as they sat around a hole in the asphalt, chatting over a late lunch. A few clouds sprawled across the sky, casting artful shadows on the skyscrapers below. He wished he had his sketchpad and charcoals.

Next to him, a khaki building sprouted from the sidewalk and stopped eighteen floors above California Street. Somewhere up there was a small-time private investigation firm trying to drum up business by offering a free initial consultation (just like everyone else). This online offer included text large enough to ensure that anyone who wasn’t actually blind would know that the firm had the lowest prices imaginable to mankind.

Desperation. He could use this—provided the P.I. didn’t recognize that he was equally desperate.

He crossed his fingers, and walked through the front door. He checked the directory in the lobby, found the office he was looking for, and made his way to the elevator.

The elevator disgorged him on the twelfth floor. He got his bearings, and then wandered the hallway until he found a glorified broom closet with the correct office number on the door. The words “Sullivan and Self Private Investigators” were emblazoned beneath the office number. Clint had laughed out loud when he first saw the firm’s name online. To see it stenciled in silver on an actual office door, trying to look legitimate, was almost beyond ridiculous. He’d have no trouble at all negotiating his price.

Then again
, he realized,
you get what you pay for…

Something was better than nothing, so of course he knocked.

Nothing.

“Okay,” he muttered, and knocked again, slightly louder. He checked his watch. 2:19—still well within standard business hours, but again his knock went unanswered. Using Molly’s loaned phone, he dialed the number he’d gotten from the Internet and heard a phone ring beyond the door with the silver letters. An old-fashioned answering machine picked up after the fourth ring, a half second before he heard it on his phone. The echo gave the perky, female voice a stadium concert quality that didn’t fit with the “little girl” sound of it. He hung up before the message ended. Yawning, he made a mental note to try another time; right now, it was time for a nap. His swing shift was really wearing on him.

And he hated swing shift.

Clint smiled at the thought that soon, his financial woes would be on their way into his personal history books. Even an entry-level position with Graphitti would pad his wallet in a way that his spot as a custodian never could.

He knew he should probably care about missing last night’s shift, but if they were really going to fire him, they would have done so by now. Clint yawned again as he made his way around the corner from the Sullivan and Self office and into the main hall. Luck alone kept him from plowing directly into a random redhead in a business suit. The last thing he needed was to have
another
nameless chick running him down.

The woman dropped a stack of papers with a gasp, and stared at him in surprise. Surprise immediately turned to shock.

A moment later, she fainted.