July 7 / Hierschtan 14

  “OK, here they club the kid, then drag Alboim behind the table.” Alvin York muttered to himself. The police detective had watched the video from the library half a dozen times already today. The holiday weekend had meant they were only just now getting the security feed. They were already well outside the critical 72-hour period, and time was ticking. Their only somewhat lucky break was Wilson Adams’s fame as a local writer kept the kidnapping in the news even through the weekend.

  Two men, one short, the other tall, dressed in dark trench coats, stood and walked quickly up to Alboim, who was casually sauntering toward the exit. It was too bad the university was too cheap to upgrade from silent 10K obsolete thirty years ago.

  Just before the moment of impact, he froze the image and zoomed in on the object the tall one bashed into Alboim’s head. “Almost looks like a candlestick. Is that Colonel Mustard?” he quipped.

  His partner, Cynthia Jenkins, snorted. “It would be funny if you hadn’t already said it half-a-hundred times already.” She leaned back in her chair, sipping from her massive mug of coffee. “Looks like a mace to me.”

  Potter, passing by them, stopped to peer at the screen. “That’s no mace,” he opined. “That is a Roman Fustis. Noncoms carried them to beat recruits into shape. Literally.”

  “You’re the resident history nut, Henry. I’ll take your word for it.” York replied. “At least we know the perps were using historically accurate weapons.”

  “No worries, Sarge!” he sauntered away.

  “Its detective!” York fired back. He’d never live down being named after his famous ancestor. York ran his fingers through his military-cut salt-and-pepper hair, then stood. “This isn’t going to get us anywhere. I’m going to go see the chief.”

  “Sure.” Jenkins replied, her eyes glued to the screen as she watched the perps spread some kind of rug on the floor—the camera was at the wrong angle to get a good look at it—then all three men disappear. Half a second later, the rug burst into flame, slightly melting the polyester carpeting underneath but causing no further damage.

  “It reminds me of Mamo’s stories of the Fey coming to snatch bad children away. Or the good looking ones; depending on her mood. ‘Be good now, Alvin me boyo, or Puck’ll come sneakin’ in the night an’ snatch ye clean away!’.” Cynthia rolled her eyes. York took a pull of the bitter, oily brew the station provided, and leaned back in his chair.

  Normal police methods would never crack this case, Alvin’s guts were fairly screaming at him. In over two decades on the force, his gut had never steered him wrong, and he had learned to listen to it. He and Cynthia were polar opposites; she was almost robotically methodical and logical, which made them a great team, the best on the force, in fact. Not that there was an overabundance of major crimes in Rapid City, South Dakota.

  “You got anything for me, York?” the chief asked as the detective shut the door to his office.

  “We won’t find anything in the video.” he stated baldly. “It’s the damndest thing I’ve seen in a long time, and it won’t be solved conventionally.”

  Chief Russel nodded. The entire department trusted York’s intuition. Too many cases had turned on him just knowing where to look or what to ask a suspect. “The kid’s alive, somewhere. But unless we can find out who took him, we won’t know how. The film’s useless.”

  “You want us to stop looking?” Russel was shocked.

  “Of course not. If nothing else, we’ll need it if this ever goes to trial. And Jenkins can find a clue in that mess if anyone can. But it’s time to start identifying and eliminating suspects. Money is the obvious motive, and MacTaggart controls the Adams trust until the eldest reaches the age of majority.

  Russel pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his chair. “Damnit York, you’re right as always. Look into Fiona MacTaggart, and check the Adams’ history. Who knows, you may find some hidden enemy out there.”

  “Might be. They did come from Serbia, and there’s a lot of history and bad blood in the Balkans.”

  Hours later, he was still musing the problem over. Other than several trips where Fiona MacTaggart simply vanished for days or weeks at a time—no phone or bank activity, unless you counted automatic bill pay. She was as clean as a Boy Scout. And those disappearances went back, near as he could tell, more than two decades.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “And speak of the devil…” he muttered. Potter was leading her over to his workstation. For a moment, he considered following OPSEC and switching off his monitors. But no, that was the wrong play here. “Leave them on,” he hissed at Cynthia. She shot him a dirty look, but complied.

  MacTaggart was a short woman, barely five-five. Weight, around a buck-twenty. Her iron gray hair was cut short, and flounced around her head with every step she took. The woman was dressed in a fashionable ash-gray suit, complete with the stupid little half-cape. Brown eyes, Roman nose, slightly-too-wide mouth, he automatically categorized. She carried herself with poise and dignity. The only odd thing was, her cafe-aux-lait face was too smooth for her sixty-eight years, especially given Dakotan weather.

  Some people just aged well. Damn their luck in the gene lottery.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. MacTaggart,” he said. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances.”

  “Good afternoon, Detective York, Detective Jenkins.” she replied. “Investigating me, I see. Proper due diligence. I should be near the top of your suspect list.” She handed him a card. “This is my lawyer; if you have questions, I have given her instructions to assist you. She warned me, though, that any unusual ones she would refer to me before answering them.”

  He noticed her glance to Cynthia’s screen, and her eyes widen ever so slightly. “A fustis? What an odd choice of weapon. Designed for pain, and incapacitation, not to permanently damage the victim. The Romans wanted to discipline their soldiers, not wound or kill them. They had plenty of enemies for that. The things you learn while riding herd on a dozen writers.”

  “And what can we do for you today, Ms. MacTaggart?”

  “I do not wish to joggle your elbow overmuch. I know you are just starting your investigation. But I was hoping you could give me some information to pass on to Agatha. She’s been asking every day for news, and I promised I would stop by and ask.”

  He remembered the youngest Adams girl, a cute little dirty-blonde nine-year-old. It was the kids who always got to him, that somehow made his gut even more sensitive. “I understand completely. The good news, he was definitely alive when they disappeared. The attacker was skilled enough to knock him out with a single blow without splitting his head open. He was a pro, and to me, that means the mob.”

  “The Bratva.” The Serbian version of the mafia.

  “Yes. We only just got the video today, and put stills on the perps out to Interpol, the FBI, and CKP—The Kingdom of Serbia’s version of the Feds. No one has responded but its too soon for that unless they are such big fish in the Bratva that we would’ve had them in our files.”

  “So he was alive.” She smiled, and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “That is good news and hopefully Agatha will be able to sleep tonight.”

  ~*** *** ***~

  Fiona MacTaggart left the police building with a silent sigh of relief. The snippet of video she’d seen confirmed everything she suspected. Alboim had been targeted and kidnapped by another world, and they would likely never see him again. The ‘carpet’ was a gigantic talisman, so Wilson’s home world unless the cosmos was playing a cruel, sick joke.

  Once she was on the road, she pulled out a cell phone from a lead-lined Faraday bag, a burner. With practiced ease, she inserted the battery, and dialed a memorized number. “Proceed.” A male voice answered the phone.

  “This is MacTaggart. I have just left the police. The detectives in charge are not on the right track, but they are clever and determined. I may have tipped the male detective, one Alvin York, off that all is not as it seems on the surface. I do not think he will easily discover us. However, left to his own devices, he may discover the truth. From what he has said, the boy was most likely taken by other-world operatives, most likely Barugalan. I will have to warn and train the girls.”

  The other end was silent for several moments. Finally, he responded. “Understood. Can they keep a secret?”

  “The girls?” MacTaggart thought for a moment. “Susan probably can, if the stress of Alboim’s disappearance hasn’t gotten to her. She keeps to herself and is much more cautious than any fourteen-year-old has a right to be. Takes after her mother, that one. I have my doubts about Agatha. She’s almost ten, and that’s very young for such a responsibility.”

  “Very well. We will have someone misdirect the detective and handle him otherwise if that proves insufficient. Train the eldest, test the youngest and do not leave either alone. Keep them at the training the Adams’s prescribed for them. When it is time for Agatha, it will stand her in good stead.”

  “Very well. I will do so. Goodbye.” Fiona promised. She would also have to seek out and warn their other guardians, as well as the local mythological creatures in the area. Most of them owed the Adams’s a great deal.

  “Stay safe, and protect the girls. Goodbye.” The man on the other end hung up, and Fiona was once again alone with her thoughts.

  After Brittany died, Wilson had given Fiona a very detailed set of training aids for the children, and the promise to keep their magical abilities a secret until they were adults. The two had taught her after all, and she was prepared to teach the children in the proper time. Brittany’s word magic was easier for her; she was just not a good enough sketch artist for Wilson’s version. “I am sorry, Will, Susan has a good head on her shoulders, and breaking my promise to you is better than her getting hurt if the Barugalans are still around.”

  MacTaggart drove on a while longer, then pulled up to a corner coffee shop, Belvidere’s. As she got back in the car with her orange mocha latte, the burner found its way under the car’s tire. When she pulled out, all that was left of it was broken glass and plastic.