The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth) (28 page)

Wolfe dropped heavily into a folding chair in front of the monitor and fiddled with the equipment.  The rest of them crowded around, Griff with his camera on his shoulder.  The blond cameraman was relentless, and Riga wondered if he’d taped Wolfe inside the emergency room as well.

The monitor flared to life, its blue screen replaced by the tranquil aquas and greens Wolfe had shot underwater.  Riga watched herself turn golden as she passed through a shaft of sunlight. 

“Nice,” Sam grunted as Riga swam above the petrified trees.  “Fast forward to the cave.  I’d like to hear Riga’s reactions to the video.”

“Okay, here we are,” Wolfe said.  “Riga’s examining the lake bottom – didn’t see any Tessie prints…  And now I’m going inside the cave.”

“I want to hear from Riga.”

“So far, I don’t have anything to add.”  She shrugged.  “It was cold.”

The cave looked even lower and smaller than she’d remembered and her heartbeat sped up.  A small enclosed space, the possibility of drowning, being trapped…  She took a deep breath.  These were just thoughts and all she had to do was stop thinking them to slow the pounding of her heart.

Wolfe’s light illuminated granite walls and drifting golden particles.  The camera turned to Riga, kneeling before the cave entrance arms extended outward, palms up, as if in prayer.  Something stirred in the silt before her.  The mass formed a dense cloud, blocking the light from the cave entrance.  Abruptly, the cloud vanished and something shot toward the camera.  The view jerked upward, to the rocky ceiling, then rolled along the cave wall to settle at the bottom, lighting a swathe of cave floor.  The screen went black.  Less than a minute passed – it had felt like more to Riga at the time – and the camera was picked up, taken to the cave entrance, turned, panned across the floor and then focused on the prone form of Wolfe.  After that point, Riga hadn’t bothered to aim.  Legs, lake floor, images of nothing, bounced sickeningly. 

“Okay,” Sam said.  “Rewind to the point where the cloud of silt forms and slow it down.”

They watched it again.

“Look,” Wolfe said, his voice rising with excitement.  “Something’s coming out of that cloud!”

“It’s a fish,” Sam said.  “Let’s see it again.”

Wolfe exhaled heavily, rewound it, pressed play.  A sturgeon darted through the cloud, at the camera.

“So, Tessie is a sturgeon.” Sam glanced at Riga.  “You warned us she might be.”

“It would have scared me,” Angus said cheerfully.

Wolfe slammed his hand on the table.  “I did not faint!”

“No,” Riga said slowly.  “Wait.  Can you play that again and reduce the speed?  Watch what happens to the silt cloud.”

Wolfe played it again and they watched as the silt condensed.  The shape of a long, evil looking fish emerged from it.

Riga leaned back, a dazed smile on her face.  “Wow.”

“What?” Sam asked.

“Don’t you see?  The sturgeon doesn’t stir up the silt and then swim out of the cloud, the sturgeon is the cloud.  Look, if that was normal silt and a normal fish, the silt wouldn’t have just vanished like that, it wouldn’t have condensed like that either.  The so-called fish acted like a black hole, pulling the silt inside.  The silt didn’t vanish; the silt became the sturgeon.”  Riga had never seen magic like it and the discovery made her giddy.

“Play it again,” Sam ordered.

Pen gasped, watching the screen.  “You’re right, Riga.  But what is it?”

“It’s Tessie.” Riga laughed.  “I think we actually found Tessie.”  Donovan would love this, she thought.

“But what is it?” Sam asked.

“Sam, this is amazing,” Riga said.  “Can’t we just enjoy the moment?”

“Theories?”

Riga grinned.  “Not a clue.  Give me time – I’ll think of something for you.”

The crew played and replayed the footage.  Finally, Riga stood up and drew Griff aside. “Can I take a look at the footage from the church?”

His pale eyes narrowed.  “I guess.” Griff indicated another bank of equipment.  “We can use this monitor.” 

He paused before a shelf of digital tapes organized by date and time, then set the video up.  Riga sat in front of the monitor and Griff leaned over her shoulder, punched a button.  The dark screen flickered to life.

The footage began with her getting out of the car.  She saw herself walk to the church, pause, look around, go inside.  Several minutes later, Riga watched Marie Carver enter the church at a run.  A long stretch of time passed and one of the three men Riga had seen in the chapel escorted Marie out, arm around her shoulders, her head buried in his chest.  The view abruptly swiveled upward, to the church tower, dark smoke drifting from it.  Riga emerged onto the roof and the camera bounced and weaved, as Wolfe tried for a better angle.  She watched until the end – the angry crowd and then the video abruptly cutting out after the Sheriff’s arrival.  The crew had done a good job of following her, Riga admitted to herself, staying close but hidden. 

She leaned back in the metal chair.  So Carver’s wife had been in the church when the fire started.  Had she encouraged the men to set it? 

“Find something, Riga?” Sam asked.

 “No,” she lied.  The tape had confirmed her suspicions about Marie’s possible role in the fire, but that wasn’t Sam’s business.  There wasn’t enough to take to the police.  “Just curious about how things looked at the church from the outside.”

Riga stood and stretched.  “The dive really took it out of me.  Can I leave you to it?”  It was mere politeness.  She was going to leave, regardless.

“I’m leaving too,” Angus said.  “I can do my audio work better in the van.”

“Sure.”  Sam rose.  “Mind if I walk you up, Riga?  There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

She nodded her acquiescence and the two headed up to the penthouse, trailed by Cesar.  Riga motioned them both into Donovan’s study.

“What’s up, Sam?” She closed the door behind them, loosened the sunshine-colored silk scarf around her neck. 

Sam dropped into a leather wingback chair, squaring an ankle over one knee.  She lowered herself into its mate across from him.  He glanced at Cesar, leaning casually against the doorframe.

“It’s okay,” Riga said.  “Cesar is discreet.”

Sam shrugged.  “Riga, I’ve sent copies of the footage on to our studio.  Our producer’s reviewed it, and the way the storyline’s developed.  The Paranormal Channel is reconsidering the special.”

Riga’s heart fell.  She’d told herself the job was just a fun way to make some extra cash while she sorted things out, and the truth was it had sometimes been frustrating, but the failure hit her hard.  Had she been that bad? 

“No, no,” Sam laughed at Riga’s expression.  “It’s not what you think.  It’s good.  Really good. They’d like to turn it into a pilot instead.  Of course we wouldn’t expect every episode to be as eventful as this one; that’s just not realistic.  But the pilot is pretty extraordinary.  It will be one hell of a launch.”

Riga stilled.  “Wait.  What exactly are you telling me, Sam?”

“I’m offering you a job.  I don’t know how long it will last.  I can’t guarantee more than five episodes at this point, but I’m feeling optimistic that we’ll get a good long run out of it.  It would involve travel, of course, but it’s not year round work.  What do you think?”

“I think I need to think about it.” 

Sam rose.  “I understand.  It’s sudden – for all of us.  But we’ve got a strong team here and this could be good for everybody.  Anyway, take your time.”

Riga nodded, watching him leave. 

“Sounds like you’re going to be a star?” Cesar said.

She made a face.  Riga had enjoyed doing the show, in spite of the occasional annoyances of constantly being watched.   She liked the crew.  She really liked the money.  But she’d be moving around.  What would that mean for her and Donovan?  Would he even care?

She shook her head, would think about that later.  Riga had other, more important concerns.  It was late afternoon now; she’d skipped the pizza the crew had ordered, and her stomach rumbled.

“Grilled cheese?” she asked him.

“My childhood favorite.  You’re on.”

He followed her to the kitchen, where she grilled the sandwiches in olive oil – cheddar and tomato for Riga, mozzarella, tomato and pesto for Cesar.  They sat on bar stools at the kitchen counter, and tore into their sandwiches.

“Have you found the owner of that dog?” Riga asked.

“Not yet.  Got any leads?”

“Maybe.  See if he answers to Monster.”

“Monster?”  Cesar laughed.  “It’s apt, I guess.  Hey, you’ve got mail.” He nodded towards a pile of envelopes stacked neatly on the counter.

“It’s for Donovan,” she said.  “My mail goes to the cabin.”

Cesar slid a thin manila envelope from the top of the pile towards her.  “This one’s got your name on it.”

She frowned, examining the envelope: laser printer, Helvetica font, no return address.  She slit the side open with a clean dinner knife, pulled out a piece of paper, unfolded it.  Time stopped.  It was a picture of Pen, bundled up in her parka and cargo pants. Wolfe laughed in the background.  A sigillum had been drawn around her in black ink.    Riga realized she’d stopped breathing.  She handed the paper to Cesar, then picked up the phone and called Pen. 

The phone rang once, twice, three times.  And then Pen’s voice:  “Yeah?”

Riga sagged with relief.  “Where are you?”

“In the casino.  I’m headed to the penthouse.”

“Is Ash with you?”

Pen blew out her breath.  “Isn’t he always?”

“Let me talk to him,” Riga said.

She heard the phone transfer, soft voices.  “Yeah?” Ash said.

“We just got a death threat against Pen.”  She looked at Cesar and he nodded.  “Cesar’s on his way to you now.  I’m giving him the phone so you can tell him your location.”

The two men spoke, then Cesar hung up.  “Stay here.  I’ll meet them and we’ll bring Pen up.  Don’t worry, she’ll be okay.”

Riga watched Cesar sprint from the kitchen.  She turned to an empty corner of the room.  “Gwenn, I need your help.”

Chapter 28: Projection

Riga grabbed her pea coat off the bed, then hesitated, looking around the bedroom, feeling she was leaving something behind.  She had everything, she realized, everything but Donovan.

She escaped at a run, down the fire stairs, avoiding Pen and her bodyguards.  She burst onto the casino’s parking lot and the sun slipped behind the mountains, bathing the scene in long, cobalt-colored shadows. Spotting the crew’s van, Riga ran to it, pounded on its side.  A slick of oil gleamed on the wet asphalt, like a peacock’s tail. 

The van’s door slid open and Angus stuck his head out, his red hair rumpled.  “Hi, Riga.  What’s up?”

“Are you alone?”

“Yeah,” he said, his broad face wary.

Riga smiled tightly.  “I need you, Angus, or at least, I need your talent.” 

She explained what she wanted.

Confusion, alarm, and finally resignation played out across his broad face. 

“I need you to follow these instructions to the letter,” she said.  “Can you do it?”

He nodded, reluctant.  “Why not bring the others?”

“Because you’re the only one I trust to do the right thing.”  Honest, methodical Angus would do what he promised, she knew. 

He dropped a filigreed pendant in Riga’s hand.  “When do we do this?” he asked.

“Now.” 

*****

Riga walked down the driveway alone, the gravel crackling beneath her boots.  The cabin was dark; her quarry hadn’t returned home yet. 

She pulled her coat tighter, shivering, and walked around to the rear.  No close neighbors – good.  The snow had melted in patches and she grabbed two heavy rocks from the moist soil and placed them upon the porch, then swung over the wooden rail.  A dog barked, a repetitive, persistent rhythm.  She tilted her head, listening: the rustle of a small animal in snow-covered Manzanita, the hoot of an owl, a whisper in the pines.  The moon had not yet risen and the darkness was absolute.  She heaved the rock through a low window and the sound of breaking glass echoed through the night.  Using the second rock, Riga cleared the remaining shards from the window.  She wore gloves, and didn’t want to leave a trail of blood. 

Grasping the sides of the window frame, she placed one booted foot on the bottom edge and climbed through and onto an end table.  It collapsed beneath her weight and she felt her ankle turn.  She tested it gingerly.  It was okay.  She breathed a sigh of relief.

No flashlight, not yet.  She closed her eyes and reached out with her senses. 
Where is the stone?
  Her eyelids flicked open, adjusting to the gloom.  Now she could make out the silhouettes of the furniture.  She glided into the kitchen, went to the refrigerator, and opened the door, casting a rectangle of light on the linoleum floor.  Her hand went unerringly to the meat drawer.  The stone was there, still wrapped in its dank cloth.  Riga smiled.  She’d always been good at finding money and the prima materia, which could turn lead to gold, called to her senses like a big, fat check.

Riga placed the prima materia on the counter, letting the cloth fall open.  In the darkness, the stone had an aura about it, like a ring about the moon before a storm.  She lingered, staring at the strange stone, then pulled herself away to check out the rest of the fridge because if she was going to die, at least she could die with a full stomach.  There was a fragrant gorgonzola and she grabbed it, then extracted a bottle of cheap Chablis from the refrigerator door.  She uncorked it, sniffed, wrinkled her nose.  Ugh.  Now she really hated him.  How could he drink this stuff?  Riga found a glass hanging from a rack above the sink and dumped some wine in.

She removed her gloves and lightly ran her fingers across the prima materia.  It felt crumbly, and only slightly harder than the cheese.  Riga said a prayer – praying that this would work, praying that Pen and Donovan would be safe, that if she was wrong, things would somehow be made right.  She broke off a piece of the stone, and tossed it down her throat, washing the prima materia down with the wine.  Her lips puckered.  The wine was as awful as she’d suspected.