Chapter #20Memories Like Constellations, Part 2 by: Seuzz   You gave up trying to make sense of anything Joe said after "A guy let me loose," so with ill-disguised impatience he has to lead you through it all over again. Gingerly you examine the masks. "So I was you for a little while," you mutter.
"Yeah," Joe drawls. "And I got to be you. Tell me who was the luckier asshole. And neither of us can remember it. Tell me who is the luckier amnesiac."
You glare at him. "You get everything out of Westside?"
"Everything but a big clay dingus." He slaps you in the chest. "I saved that little souvenir for you to move, so I wouldn't be able to justly hog all the credit."
The two of you drive to Westside, make a sweep of the gym loft, and pile the little that's left into the back of the truck. Then, to be absolutely safe, since the warlocks are still loose, you order Joe to drive it all back to Olympia and to get back ASAP.
He grins and punches the accelerator to the floorboard, peeling out of the parking lot. The truck has barely disappeared around one corner when it appears again around another. This time it's empty as Joe hops out. He raises his hands over his head and swivels his hips. "Oh, I can book it, book it, book it," he sings.
You slap at his forehead with the heel of your hand, but he dodges. "What did Dad say?" you ask.
"'Great job.' Naturally, since I didn't adulterate the magnificence of our victory by describing your part in it."
You ignore him. "We still have to catch this Prescott kid," you mutter. "Check out the Strausslers. Find out how deep Fane is involved."
Joe sobers up and nods along. "Do something about the stock market too," he says, and sucks worriedly at his lower lip. You blink, for you don't remember the stock market being part of this crisis. "End world hunger," he continues. "Bring peace to the Middle East. Gonna be a late supper before we're done."
"Joe, this is serious."
"I am being serious. Seriously satirical, which means satirical for a serious purpose. They're crippled, bro. We got it all."
"They might still have masks out. If Fane can reverse engineer them—"
"Nash is already on his way to Dad's to start looking at the Libra. If Fane can reverse engineer anything, he'll be able to tell us." He hoots. "This'll really ring Hal's chimes."
"We can still nip it by finding Prescott and the others before they get away."
"And we will," Joe says. "But I just drove three thousand miles in negative ninety minutes. My blood sugar—"
"Oh, Stars, Joe," you gasp, and grab him as he starts to sink. "Why didn't you eat something before coming back here?"
"Priorities," he chortles. "I had to gloat!"
* * * * *
"I don't know!" Steve Patterson howls as he dangles in mid-air. "Oh, Christ, you'll have to ask Prescott!"
"Where is he?"
"How the fuck should I—?"
You drop him to the asphalt, and his arm bends the wrong way. Despite that, he scrambles away. You let him get maybe thirty yards off, then drag him back and plant a foot on his neck. "One more time. Where did Prescott and the Strausslers go?"
He gurgles and shakes his head. At least he's got the guts to look you in the eye.
You haul him up. "You're snake, Patterson," you growl. "And we're putting you to sleep. Joe!" Your brother pops a silver bag over the ballplayer's head, and he collapses. You hurl him into the back of the truck for transport to Olympia, and to judgment.
* * * *
"I'd have to make a dingus, Chazz," Nash Carnes says, "before I could say if it can be reverse engineered."
Joe hoots and hops about. "Cool! So who gets to be who? I mean, whose face do we copy and who gets to wear it?"
"Joe!" you bark, then duck deferentially as your father glances at you. "I mean— I beg your pardon, sir. I spoke out of turn."
"Speak," your father says. "You've more direct experience with these things."
You draw a deep breath. "Then I'd say we shouldn't make one. The Libra is a cursed book, and has been used in an accursed fashion on— Well, on me and my brother."
"Nothing accursed about getting to wear my face," Joe mutters.
"Besides, it isn't necessary to make new masks," you continue. "We brought back spoils, ones made by—"
"Yeah, but they all got imago innim," Nash says. "I'd need a fresh one, just to be sure, just in case that's what Fane made off with."
"Still, we don't have to use it," you say. "Make one, study it, destroy it."
"I was in the middle of a doppelganger orgy," Joe grumbles, and kicks at the floor, "and I don't get to remember having any fun."
"Good," you snap.
But your father cocks his head thoughtfully. "You were a victim, Joe," he says. "Doesn't it bother you, as it bothers your brother?"
"Well, sure," he sputters. "But they were having fun, playing with disguises. We got totally hosed! It would sting less if I'd gotten to have at least a little fun." He shrugs and blushes. "Oh, ignore me, Dad. I'm just having fun bitching about it."
"Now you protest too little," your father smiles. "I take your plaint seriously. Indeed, I will command you to make and put on a mask."
Joe's eyes widen, and a manic grin spreads across his face.
"Yes," your father continues. "You and Frank will go to England, to press Fane directly with Hal's help. He believes they are manipulating an athletic team there. You can infiltrate them."
"So I get to disguise myself as one of them?" Joe doesn't hide his glee. But his smile freezes at your father's next words.
"No. You will go disguised as one whom they will certainly accept as a teammate. You will go to Cambridge disguised as your brother, while he goes to Oxford to investigate dark doings there."
Joe gasps, and his expression craters.
* * * * *
"And you let her get away," you dryly observe.
Frank Durras sticks his tongue out at you. "Nngh nngh nngh!" he grunts as you grasp it with your third hand. While he's thus distracted you rip the mask off. Joe faints in a heap to the floor.
Fyodor's booming laugh bounces off the boat house beams. "Don't beat yourself up, Frank! That is the expression, isn't it?"
"Yes sir, but that's not what it means. If Joe is right that it was a Fane doppelganger—"
"He has a quick eye and good judgment. There is no 'if'."
"Then we need to call Dad."
Fyodor shakes his head and points to the rowing team, still sprawled on the floor where Joe put them, with silver bags over their heads. "We must be merciful, Frank, and put these children to bed first."
So you watch the trials patiently, then guide each athlete into the Chamber to a stone bier, where you sing them to sleep. As you leave the last one, you briefly detour deeper into the Chamber, to look down at Steve Patterson. His expression is deeply troubled, and his muscles are tense. You wonder how many more dreams he must suffer before waking.
Afterward comes good news: Nash says the masks cannot be reverse engineered. "They'd need the sigils to make more," he assures the company by speakerphone, "and those can't be copied."
"Not even if they've been memorized," Joe asks. You grimace that your brother, with his prodigious memory, would ask about that.
"Not even then, Carvello," Nash retorts. "I thought Reilly told you, the book's locked against monkey business."
"So it must've been a spare mask they made off with," you sigh with relief. "There can't be too many of those. And they just wasted one on that girl."
"If you'd seen her, bro," Joe chuckles, "you wouldn't call it a waste."
* * * * *
You roll the leaf between your fingers. "What is it? Marijuana?"
Joe snickers. "Would you know weed if you saw it?"
"How would you know it if you saw it, Joe?" Patterson asks.
"Because I've been known to read books."
You shove Joe. He shoves Steve. Steve shoves you.
The girl raises a defiant chin. "What do you care what it is?"
"I'm sure Fane didn't care," you say, and drop the leaf to the parlor floor.
"Who?"
The mousy, misshapen woman puts a protective arm across the girl's chest. "The ones who murdered your grandmother, child," she says, and glares at you. "And these will not murder you, not if—"
With a gentle touch, the girl pushes the woman away. "It's alright, Aunt Sarah," she says.
"We're not here to hurt anyone," you insist. "We only want to ask about that firefight two years ago. The one that—"
"You from the gummint?" a harsh voice sounds behind you.
You turn your head fractionally at the sound of a hammer cocking, until you can see the gleam of the pistol out of the corner of your eye. Swiftly you knock it away with an invisible fist, then hurl the lank and greasy youth across the room. "'m sorry, Rosalie," he mutters as he tries to get up.
"Another one of your slaves, witch?" you bark.
"My husband," she replies, and returns your hard stare with a harder one of her own.
Losing patience, you drop the lot of them with one massive blow, then bag the girl for transport to Olympia.
But Joe is quiet on the drive back. "Those weren't slaves, Frank," he says.
"I've never seen devotion like that outside a cult."
"I'm not saying it was normal." He glances back into the bed of the truck. "But before we put her to sleep, we're gonna have to run a test on her."
"You just can't resist a pretty face."
Joe shoves you. You shove Patterson. He shoves Joe.  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
| Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author