Beyond the Pale Page 9

  He looked up as something on the billboard caught his eye. No, it wasn’t on the billboard, but in it—something wispy, like a puff of cotton. Something that was … moving.

  It was a cloud. It drifted above the brooding mountains, floated from right to left, and passed off the edge of the billboard and vanished. Fascinated, Travis took a step closer. It wasn’t just the cloud, he saw now. Everything in the picture was moving. Tiny trees swayed in the wake of an unseen wind, and the silver thread of a waterfall glinted as, from its base, clouds of mist billowed upward. Even the stars were alive, twinkling like real stars, now bright, now dim, now bright again as they wheeled in the sky.

  It wasn’t a picture on the billboard at all. Somehow it had become a window looking into another—what? Another place? Another time? He thought of Sister Mirrim’s words. Another … world?

  His thoughts were drowned out as sound sizzled on the air, growing louder every second. He turned and saw, over a rise in the road, a white glow. Even as he watched, the glow crested the hill like some terrible dawn. Then he saw them in the center of the light, coming toward him: sinister, spidery figures. Had they seen him yet? Had they recognized him from the Magician’s Attic? Travis didn’t know, but he couldn’t run anymore, he was too tired. Whatever the things in the light were, in seconds they would have him. He wondered if it would take long, and whether it would be very painful.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” he said. He clutched the iron box through the thick fabric of his coat. “I’m sorry I let you down. But there’s nowhere left to …”

  His words trailed off. He turned and stared at the face of the billboard. Maybe that wasn’t true, maybe there was somewhere after all. It was impossible, but so had been a dozen other things he had witnessed that night. Maybe it made sense to try something impossible himself.

  There was no more time to think—the willowy figures moved toward him with malevolent speed. Travis clenched his jaw. He hesitated only a heartbeat, then he threw himself forward …

  … and fell into the billboard.

  17.

  “All right, Dr. Beckett, I have just a few more questions for you,” the police detective said in a weary voice. He flipped a page of the legal tablet that rested on the cluttered desk before him.

  Grace shifted on the hard wooden chair. For the last hour she had sat while the detective took her statement and prompted her for details concerning the deaths at Denver Memorial. Back at the hospital, when a pair of officers had told her they would have to take her to the Denver police station for questioning, Grace had offered no resistance. She had let them pry the gun from her fingers, and was grateful they did not handcuff her as they led her to the patrol car. But the two young officers had been sympathetic, and even admiring, as they bantered in the front seat.

  “Bastard didn’t have the sense to know he was dead the first time around,” one of them had said with a low whistle. “Must have been high on something pretty damn amazing.”

  “Takes a licking and keeps on ticking,” the other had joked.

  The first officer had laughed at that. “Not after the doc here took care of him, he wasn’t.”

  The second officer was angry now. “Yeah, she took care of that copkiller real good.” He turned around to look at Grace through the intervening grill. “You did the right thing, Doc, taking him out like that. You did the exact right thing.”

  Grace had only squeezed her eyes shut and saw again the man with the iron heart, the way his head exploded outward in a spray of white, and gray, and brilliant red. She had said nothing. Yes, it had been the right thing to do, but these thick-necked boys playing cops and robbers had no idea of the true and terrible reason why. And she would never tell them. How could she? I’m sorry, Your Honor, I shot him because he was a creature of perfect evil. She had a feeling it would not provide much of a defense in a murder trial.

  The detective droned on, and Grace listened as best she could. As she often did when nervous, she had drawn her necklace from beneath her blouse and now fidgeted with the pendant. The touch of the cool metal calmed her. It was hard to breathe in the detective’s cramped office. The overhead light seemed to leak its dirty illumination only grudgingly, and thick smoke curled from a lit cigarette he had left in an ashtray. She noticed a plastic nameplate amid the litter of his desk. Det. Douglas L. Janson. Something told her people usually called him Doug. She could almost imagine a young, handsome, high school yearbook version of Detective Janson. But with twenty-five years had come twice that many extra pounds, along with thinning hair and circles beneath his small eyes. A crooked mustache framed his thin mouth, and stubble speckled his jowls like grains of sand.

  He gripped a pencil in thick fingers and checked off items on his list with bored efficiency. In measured words Grace responded. No, she had never seen the suspect in the ED before that night. Yes, she had believed the life of the old woman in the wheelchair to be in danger. No, she had not called out to the suspect to halt before she had shot him. Yes, she had shot him exactly four times. Yes, she would do it again if she had to.

  At last Detective Janson set down his tablet. “Thank you, Dr. Beckett. I think that’s enough.” He stood, took his holster from the back of his chair, and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ve got to confer with my superior for a minute on this, but I doubt we’ll be making an arrest, at least for the time being.”

  Grace gave a jerky nod in reply and felt a jolt of relief. Maybe this night was finally almost over.

  Janson promised to return in a few minutes. The detective shut the door behind him. There was a click as the lock turned, then the receding sound of his heavy footsteps. Grace glanced at the wall clock. Almost midnight. It had been just six hours. Six short hours since she had encountered the strange girl in the park. Six small notches on the face of the clock, that was all. When the police did release her, she wondered where she would go. Not back to the ED. Knowing what she did now—awakened to the awareness of what things walked the world—she could never again sink into the safe preoccupation that had been her life. Knowledge was perilous, and it changed everything.

  The lock on the door rattled. Grace glanced up. She had not expected Janson to return so quickly, nor had she heard his footsteps approaching. The lock continued to rattle, as if the detective was having difficulty getting the key to work, then the dead bolt turned. The door opened and shut again as a man stepped into the office. It was not Detective Douglas L. Janson.

  With a start, Grace recognized the dark-haired man. He was the one who had watched her from a distance at the hospital, not long after the man with the iron heart had died. Had died for the first time, that was. Grace started to rise from her chair in alarm, but the man held up a hand to halt her. She was not certain how, but some instinct told her that while this man might be dangerous, he was not her enemy. She sank back down into her chair.

  “Who are you?” she asked, surprised at her own calm.

  “A friend,” he answered.

  The man moved away from the door and slipped a thin piece of wire into a pocket. He was tall, middle thirties perhaps. His tailored suit was of European cut, and his visage made her think of a bust of a Roman general: curly hair, proud nose, full and sensual lips. When he spoke, it was in a cultured voice from which an expensive education had purged all but the faintest traces of an indeterminate accent.

  “You are in danger here,” the man said in a grave voice.

  Grace sighed and thought of the girl in the park. She had had enough mysterious admonitions for one day. “I’m afraid I don’t take cryptic warnings from strangers anymore,” she said.

  The hint of a smile played across his lips. “I apologize, Dr. Beckett. In my urgency to warn you, I have neglected to introduce myself. A regrettable oversight. I hope it has not predisposed you toward suspicion.” He held out a hand. “My name is Farr. Hadrian Farr.”

  Grace did not accept the proffered hand. Rather than expressing embarrassment at this snub, Farr deftly altered his ge
sture and reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat to draw out a gold cigarette case, as though that was what he had intended to do all along. He begged her permission with a raised eyebrow, and when she did not protest took out an unfiltered cigarette, then touched the end to a flame that sprang from the side of the case. Rich tobacco smoke curled upward and blended with the haze that already hung on the air. The man called Farr sat on a corner of the desk to regard Grace. What could he possibly want of her?

  “I don’t want anything of you,” he said. “But in a moment, after you hear what I have to say, you may want something of me. That is why I followed you here.”

  Grace crossed her arms and treated him to a skeptical look. The man was peculiar, but he did not seem particularly menacing. Despite his air of education—which, she was beginning to suspect, was an affectation—she guessed he was a reporter for some tabloid newspaper, hot after the story of the man with the iron heart. The detective was going to return any minute, so she supposed there was little risk in indulging Farr. Grace indicated for him to continue speaking.

  “I belong to an international organization,” Farr went on after a drag on his cigarette. “The name is not important right now, but know that this is an organization that studies—how shall I say it?—unusual things.”

  “Things like people with hearts made of iron?”

  “Yes, things like that. And more. We take an interest in many sorts of curious items and occurrences, all of which, you might say, have a preternatural character to them. That is, they lie beyond the world of the usual and mundane. It is the purpose of my organization to seek out, investigate, and catalog such instances.” He took another pull on his cigarette. “We are scholars, you see.”

  “And the connection between all this and me is …?”

  “Oh, there’s the obvious connection,” Farr said. “We often attempt to interview those who have had encounters with the unusual. But there is a more immediate concern here.” He snuffed out the cigarette among the butts in the cheap ceramic ashtray and leaned forward. “I have already said it once, but allow me to reiterate. You are in peril here, Dr. Beckett.”

  A chill danced along Grace’s skin. Grim intensity shone in Fair’s eyes, and it was suddenly hard not to believe his words.

  “How?” It was all she could manage.

  “The man you shot at the hospital was not the only one of his kind, Dr. Beckett,” he said in a hushed voice. “My organization has been aware of them for some time, and we have been studying them—though as of yet we have been unable to make direct contact, so we know little of their origin or purpose. But I imagine you will be interested to know your detective friend here is one of them.”

  “One of them?”

  “Yes. Janson is an ironheart, Dr. Beckett.”

  Grace shook her head in mute disbelief. It was impossible. It had to be. Janson seemed so drab, so uninteresting, so … normal. How could he be another one of them?

  Farr did not give her a chance to reply. “There is more you should know. It might have been chance that brought you in contact with the ironheart at the hospital. Then again, I might be inclined to question that. Regardless, there is no blind luck in Detective Janson’s present interest in you. It is your necklace, you see.”

  Grace reached up to grip the pendant at her throat. “My necklace? What does my necklace have to do with any of this?”

  “Perhaps a great deal.” Farr reached out and uncoiled Grace’s hand from around the pendant. He brushed a fingertip over the designs incised upon it. “As I said, we know little of the purpose of the ironhearts. But we do know they have, in the past, expressed an interest in runes—that is, symbols such as these engraved on your necklace.”

  “Runes?” Grace thought she had heard the word before, but she wasn’t exactly certain what they were. “Aren’t those some sort of things New Age types use when their tarot cards wear out?”

  Farr gave a soft laugh. “Yes and no,” he said. “Yes, in that the runes used for entertainment today are descended from symbols of power that were used centuries ago by various Norse and Germanic peoples.” He paused a heartbeat. “No, in that the type of runes the ironhearts are interested in—the sort that are on your own necklace—are extremely rare, and of unknown origin.”

  Grace tucked a loose lock of ash-blond hair behind one of her small ears. Farr’s words were ludicrous, yet for some reason they frightened her. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “First you must get away from Detective Janson,” Farr said. “Get out of the police station as quickly as you—”

  He was interrupted as, faint but approaching, the sound of heavy footfalls drifted through the open transom over the door.

  Grace stared at Farr with wide eyes. “But how can I know what you’re saying is true?”

  Outside, she could hear the echo of Janson’s voice. He had paused to speak to someone. Farr stood, reached into a pocket, and drew out an object. He thrust it into Grace’s fumbling hands.

  “Use this. See the truth for yourself. Then—and I entreat you—get out of here as fast as you can.”

  The footsteps approached once more. Farr moved to the door, then turned to regard her for a fleeting moment. “Good luck, Dr. Beckett.” The door opened and shut, the lock turned, and Hadrian Farr was gone.

  Grace glanced down at the object in her hand. It was a plastic compass, the kind Boy and Girl Scouts used on hiking trips. The needle wavered back and forth, disturbed by her shaking hand, but never veered more than a few degrees away from magnetic north. The door opened. Grace jumped to her feet and thrust the compass into the pocket of her chinos. Detective Janson stepped in, a folder of papers in his hand, his expression just as bored as ever. Apparently he had not seen Farr’s departure.

  “You’re all cleared, Dr. Beckett.” The detective tossed the folder onto the desk. “We just need you to sign a few things, then you can be on your way. I’m going to have some coffee. Would you like some?”

  “Sure,” Grace managed to say. Now that Janson had returned, it seemed harder to believe Farr’s outlandish words. She did not doubt there were others walking the world with lumps of cold iron lodged in their thoracic cavities instead of warm, living hearts. But Janson was just another overweight, overworked, disinterested police detective. Still, she would sleep better if she was absolutely certain.…

  Janson turned his back to her, picked up a pot from a hot plate, and filled two paper cups. She drew the compass from her pocket and stepped toward him. She glanced down. The needle pointed straight toward magnetic north. Nothing had altered its direction. Relief coursed through her. Just to prove the point, she stretched out her arms and brought the compass within a foot of Janson.

  The needle spun in circles.

  Grace stared in horror. Even as she watched, the needle steadied until it was aimed once more in a single direction. Only this time it was not pointing toward magnetic north. It was pointing directly at the center of Detective Janson’s back.

  “Now, let’s get you signing those papers so you can go home,” Janson said in an amiable tone. He picked up the coffee cups and turned around.

  Grace stepped back and thrust the hand with the compass into her pocket. Janson held out one of the steaming cups, and she gripped it in her free hand, certain he had to see the way she trembled. However, the detective seemed not to notice anything was amiss. Grace clenched her jaw, terrified she was going to scream.

  “So, Dr. Beckett,” Janson said, and a spark of interest ignited in his small eyes, “tell me where you got that interesting necklace of yours.…”

  18.

  In every progression, in every series of changes great or small, there comes a single moment—one thin sliver of a second—in which all that lies behind, and all that lies before, stands in perfect symmetry, like a beam balanced on a fulcrum. Step back from the point of the fulcrum, and the balance shifts to the side that was trod before, back toward the familiar and the usual. But step over the fulcrum, and the
beam tilts forward, and one who stands upon it careens down the slope, carried beyond all control into possibilities unknown. And once the fragile balance of the progression has been altered, in either direction, it can never be restored. Step back, and the chance to step forward will never come again. Go beyond, and lose all hope of ever returning to what once was.

  Detective Janson’s question trailed off, the echo of his words oozed false nonchalance, and his once-bored eyes were now alive with hungry light.

  In that moment, Grace stood upon the fulcrum. She clutched the hot cup of coffee, and a vision passed before her, such as that glimpsed by people during near-death experiences. She was at the hospital, caught up once more in the breathless chaos that gave her—thankfully—no time to think. Morty Underwood laughed, and a stream of injured poured through the automatic doors. Grace bent over each patient, to quiet fear, soothe pain, and mend hurts with deft fingers. Treating the wounds of others left her no time to notice her own.

  It was still possible to go back—back to the hospital, back to her carefully constructed life. All she had to do was give Janson the necklace. It was the necklace he was interested in, not herself. If she gave it to him, he would certainly let her go, would almost certainly forget her. And the hospital’s board of directors wanted to keep the incident with the ironheart quiet. She would never have to think of him, or of the cold lump of metal in his chest, again. She saw herself striding through the corridors of Denver Memorial once more: confident, in control, a queen in her own dominion. Even Leon Arlington was there. He leaned against a counter and gazed at her with his sleepy brown eyes.…

  Leon?

  But Leon Arlington couldn’t be there. Poor Leon, who was now himself lying in one of the metal drawers in the hospital’s morgue. Dear Leon, who had worked so long with dead people he had become like them, then had become one of them. Yet now he was there, and he fixed her with his placid gaze.