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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
| Previously: {entry: You suddenly feel very tired. So many things to think about. So many things to get straight. Wouldn't it just be easier to let things drift? You are suddenly eager to get away from Caleb. "I've got things to do," you say as you edge out of the booth. "What things?" "This guy's things." You point to your face. "You guys didn't totally blow through the stash I left behind with you, did you?" "No." "Well, I'll have some more for you anyway. Catch you later." "Will!" Caleb shouts, but you're swiftly out the door. * * * * * Your thoughts seem smothered with an acrid smog as you drive across town. It doesn't help that you recognize and can name the cause. Impatience. One of Macaulay's counselors—back when he was a high school troublemaker—told him that was his basic problem: he lacked the patience to think things through, and so always got in trouble by doing the quick and easy (and violent and illegal) thing instead of the hard, smart thing. Dwayne had replied by throwing the man's own stapler at his head. Well, you're not going to have to play Dwayne much longer. There's just a few things you need to do, and then you'll tear him out of your head. Then you'll be able to give things the good think-through they need. But a suspicion chews at the back of your head: Except for dumping Macaulay, you're going to leave things just as they are. * * * * * Macaulay's place, when you arrive, is an even bigger wreck than when you left it. The furniture has been thrown about, and fly-infested bits of fast-food meals cover the empty surfaces. They must have been left by whoever Mathis sent over to watch and wait for Marianne. At least the closet is intact. You hustle all of Dwayne's things into a single suitcase, pack up a few toiletries, then leave. Hopefully, anyone who searches it will conclude that Macaulay has lit out of town. Next you drive downtown, to the Warehouse. It's a weeknight, so the breeze is free to sweep dirt and trash across the empty parking lot. You shouldn't have any trouble with anyone—they should all know you, and know your business—but you slide Macaulay's semiautomatic into the back of your jeans anyway. But the doors are locked, and you have to batter at them with your fist. "Yeah?" sneers the squint-eyed teenager who eventually answers. "No trespassing." Christ. You rack the semiautomatic and put the muzzle in the kid's face. "This is my season pass. If Carstairs is here, call him down." The kid turns pale, and backs away with his hands in the air. "Erik's not here," he stammers. "Then who is?" "Just a couple of us." He licks his lips. "Then get me a fucking beer while I make a call." You wave the pistol, indicating he precede you into the saloon. "Everything's locked up." "I'm not talking about the fucking stocks, dumbass! I'm talking the fucking beer you motherfuckers got back in the main fucking hall! Move!" You point the piece at his foot, and he rushes off like you lit up his toes with a blow torch. Back in the saloon you slump in a broken booth with your back to the wall and take out your phone. As you tap out a text to Carstairs, the kid brings you two warm Coors. You slap three ones into his hands, just to show you're not a complete asshole, and glare at the faces that peer around the corner of the far doorway. * * * * * It's almost forty minutes before a grinning Erik Carstairs swaggers in like the football player he is: blonde, bluff, and packed all over with hard, bulging muscles. "'Sup, man," he asks as you and he slap hands. "Have a good vacation?" "It was shit. Where's the money?" "In the office. Wanna see the books?" You loft a briefcase at him. "Just pack it in. Three weekends' worth." "Fucking Scorchicos, man." Erik shakes his head. "They keep playing, our guys are gonna have to cut back. Fucking sophomores are the only ones turning out to see them play." You grunt, and with a shrug Erik saunters into the back. A few minutes later he returns with the suitcase. It will have fifteen thousand dollars in it, money owed by the Warehouse vendors to Karol Mathis for the food and drink he sells them. You slam back the last of your beer and press the second one onto Erik in exchange for the suitcase. "If anyone asks about me, you saw me and I collected." "Do I need a receipt?" "Smart ass." Now you've got the money Mathis asked you to bring him. But you won't: this will reimburse you for the money you lost to him and Brampton. And its disappearance will be a further motive explaining the disappearance of Dwayne Macaulay himself. * * * * * Next you drive out to the far south end of town, where you stop briefly at Ray's Barbecue to pick up some dinner. Were Ray of Ray's Barbecue and Ben of Ben's BBQ related? Maybe; there are urban legends that they were brothers who feuded each other into oblivion. After wolfing down a basket of brisket and fries, you drive a few blocks back into town to check in to the Layzee-Nites Motel. But after offloading and unpacking the suitcases and toiletries, you make another change. Inside the locked bathroom you stretch out on the floor and remove Macaulay's mask, turning yourself back into Will Prescott. You do not, however, remove the brain band (which would be a separate operation), for you still want Macaulay's brain inside yours for a little while. After changing shirts, you leave everything but the money behind and, under your own face, hike a further few blocks up Twentieth Street to the Donna Courts Motel, where you had installed Marianne. And there, under the name Mack Martin, you check in for the night. You are just opening the room door, and congratulating yourself on having made a clean escape, when you hear someone call your name. You wheel. It's Kim Walsh, a girl from school. Actually, she's slightly more than "a" girl: the tiny red-head with the serious demeanor is the president of the student council. But she's turned a bright smile onto you now. "I never thought I'd run into you here," she says. "I never thought I'd run into you here either," you stammer. You have to wonder what she's doing here—and why she's carrying a set of folded sheets. "My dad owns this place. But what are you, uh—?" She breaks off, and her smile turns puzzled. In a flash, with Dwayne's own brain, you see the deductions and intuitions she is making and having. The Donna Courts Motel doesn't just rent rooms to weary travelers. It is also possible to rent a room and get a partial refund for checking out early, and so it also operates as a place where people can rent rooms by the hour if they want a discreet place to fuck or to transact the kind of business that can't be conducted in an office setting. It's Dwayne Macaulay's kind of place. It's certainly not the kind of place that you'd associate with Kim Walsh. It's also certainly not the kind of place that anyone would associate with Will Prescott. So you blush as you see the thought condensing behind Kim's eyes: OMG! Is Will here to ... No! Really? "Uh, I'm spending the night here," you stammer; from the back of your head, Dwayne jeers at you. "Yeah, my folks ... and my brother ... they're out of town? And ... uh ... the house was feeling kind of empty and lonely?" "You want some company?" Kim smiles and points back to the office. "When I'm done with Room 18, I'll be back in there working on homework." "Uh, no. Thanks. Well, maybe. Depends." Your blush deepens. "I'm, uh, kind of undecided at the moment." She beams. "Okay, stop by if you want. We had fun Saturday, didn't we?" You're jolted by a wave of nauseated panic. "Yeah! We should do ... that ... again. Sometime." You feel yourself turning green. She nods, wishes you a good night, and walks off toward a room across the way. You bolt into your own room and lock the door. It's several minutes. before you stop feeling sick. It's Dwayne's damn brain band is what it is. It's making you jumpy. Fucking paranoia. You really need to get it out of your head. And yet ... As you hunch on the edge of the bed, the nausea of fear yields to a glow of exultation. The adrenaline feels good. Yes, now that it's over ... You like the way you handled things at the Warehouse, and the way you're handling them now. In fact, if it weren't for the fatal danger you're putting yourself in with Karol Mathis, you'd be tempted to continue as Macaulay. And as you muse on it, a vivid fantasy creeps over you. Why couldn't you continue as Macaulay? But in disguise? Keep the brain band on and ... run his business from inside the high school? No one would suspect Will Prescott— No! you correct yourself in a flash of inspiration. No one would suspect Dane Matthias of being a secret, criminal mastermind! It would be easy. Leave Gordon and Dane where they are. Put on Dane's mask. (Someone needs to replace him anyway.) There's no brain band in it, so there'd be room for you to keep Dwayne's brain band in play. Place a few of those golem things like Caleb was telling you about in key positions. A fake Erik Carstairs to run the Warehouse, for instance. A fake Gary Chen to run the trade inside the school. A fake Karol Mathis to run the upper end of things ... ... and a fake Dane Matthias, raking in all the money while turning a glassy, dopey grin back on the world. * To secretly run a crime syndicate: "The Many Faces of Crime, Part 1"  * To return to being a high school student: "The Copyist" |
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