Chapter #17The Next Spell by: Seuzz   The kid who looks like Will Prescott is practically vibrating in the kitchen entryway when you come in from the garage. "So what happened at work today?" he blurts out.
"I don't know," you reply. "Weren't you there?" You brush past him so you can give Martha a kiss.
"What happened at work today?" she asks.
You shoot Caleb a dirty glance over your shoulder. "Nothing happened at work," you say as you loosen your tie and undo the top button of your shirt. "I had the usual messes to clean up, and so did Will—"
"Your son told me there was an explosion," Martha says. "I almost called to find out—"
"Your son needs to learn to leave the daily recap to me," you retort. "There was no explosion at work today, except the metaphorical kind," you continue as you take a beer from the refrigerator. "We fired three guys."
"Harris," your wife says in that tone she reserves for when her husband is in deep trouble. "What? Happened?"
"Nothing. I told you. Oh, something happened last night. Someone got into one of the units and it looks like they used an explosive to get back out again. Funny thing is, they would have brought their own. Isn't that right, Will?" You give him a hard look as you take a swig from the bottle.
"Yes sir," he says in a low voice. "Me and Sean" —You let the ungrammatical expression slide by— "didn't find anything missing. Everything accounted for on the manifest."
"We'll be double-checking that because it doesn't make any sense," you reply in a very cold tone. "Though you won't be the only guys in trouble if there's a discrepancy. We need to hire three new security guards because the two last night didn't hear anything like the earth-shattering kaboom the damage would indicate, and the one this morning who was supposed to be patrolling the alley didn't even see anything. We only found the busted window at around three this afternoon when his replacement came on duty." You take another refreshing swig of beer.
Martha looks between you and Will in a way that tells you that the conversation has only been suspended, not terminated.
* * * * *
Dinner is pleasant enough, as Will has begun to leave Robert alone, so that you only have to squash one of your obstreperous offspring instead of both of them. Your wife tries cornering you in the kitchen as she cleans up, but you tell her you'll talk later, as you have "homework duties" with your son.
"Why are you riding my ass about that thing at work?" he waspishly demands after you've shut the study doors on the rest of the family. "I wasn't even there, I was at the clubhouse, like you told me to be!"
"Just keeping up appearances," you say. "What's your sense of things? Did Will and Sean miss something in that room? Did they go at it half-assed?"
"No. Sean was an anal-retentive prick about checking everything. Or that's the impression I've got." He rubs at his forehead, where a new crop of zits is breaking out. "Unless someone made an explosive cocktail from the things in those drums and then got the seals back on, everything's accounted for."
"Then I'll order an audit on the manifests. Maybe they were incorrect." You sit at the desk. Your old book bag is already sitting atop it, and you begin emptying it for the night's session.
"It wasn't an explosion, Dad," Caleb sneers. "Not from the inside. Sean told me what you said, but you saw what it looked like inside there. Nothing knocked over, no burns, no nothing. Anything that could have taken those shutters out would have—"
"There are ways of making a unidirectional explosion," you reply. "But it's nothing for you to worry about. You need to worry that your mother is going to make you quit that job because it's too dangerous."
"Really?"
"Yes. I know that look she got."
"Well, cool. Then maybe you can get them to hire Caleb Johansson as a replacement." He beams. "You know, he's been bugging me like a fucker about it, and he came real close to kicking my ass when I stabbed him in the back by taking it myself!"
You smile thinly. "Maybe we can arrange for Caleb to get your job. You'll still be living here, though, and doing the research I set you. Speaking of which— What happened at the clubhouse?"
Caleb takes out a mask and a Tupperware container. "This is the stuff it made," he says as he opens the tub. It is filled with a thin, grayish paste with the consistency of watery oatmeal. "That was what came out, and it was enough to get the page to turn."
He pulls off his cap long enough to comb out the stiff locks with his fingers before continuing. "I think this is the stuff that's got your dad covered up. If it is then maybe we can chip it off him."
"You mean it's covered him like a shell?"
Caleb hunches his shoulders and squints. "Well, I don't know. We won't know unless we try. But it's made with the same stuff, mostly. And instead of pouring it over a body—"
"You didn't 'pour' it over my dad," you remind him. "You piled the stuff on him and set him on fire."
"Don't be pedantic. But this stuff, instead of going on the person, goes inside a mask. See?" He pushes the mask across the desk toward you, and you pick it up.
The masks you've made and seen to this point are, when completed, polished a brilliant blue all over. But this one is blue only on its convex side. On the side that sits on the face, it's a pasty white, the same color as the stuff in the Tupperware tub. But you can feel the raised spot where the metal band is, and Caleb's name still floats over the inner surface.
"I guess you had to use your mask, huh?" you say. "Whose hair did you use?"
"Mine. The way I figure it, based on what the spell says—"
He outlines his theory, then you pore over the revealed reverse of the spell page with him. After some discussion, you tentatively concur with his reading of it. "Of course, the only way to find out," you tell him, "is to try it out on someone." You push the mask into his hands. "Go put it on your brother."
Caleb's face—the face of Will Prescott—collapses in shock. "Are you serious?"
"I'm totally serious, mister." You set your mouth in a grim line. "Now. Text me when you've done it so I can come up to look."
Caleb turns white, and he swallows, then he gets to his feet. He gives you a backward glance in the doorway, then shuffles out.
You pick up a pencil and doodle on a notepad, trying not to think of all the ways this could go wrong, until your phone dings. redy, says your son. You heave yourself to your feet.
Upstairs, you shut the door to Robert's room behind you. Will and his friend Caleb—the latter squeezed into clothes that are too small for him—stare back at you palely from the bed.
It takes you a few seconds to find your voice. "What's your name?" you ask the kid with the short, tightly curled hair.
"You know me, Mr. Prescott," he says. "Caleb Johansson? And I'm really, really sorry about what I did to you back at the, er—"
"It seems to be, uh, me," Will says. "I asked it a few questions, and it knows everything I know. And it obeys me too, just like a golem."
"What do you know about Robert?" you ask the fake Caleb. "Will's brother?"
"Only that Will thinks he's a pest," he says warily.
"You know where he is?"
He looks around the room, but shakes his head.
"Alright, take it off him," you tell Will. Your heart thumps hard. "Let's see what it did to him."
Caleb flinches as Will reaches for his face, but relents long enough for your "son" to pull at his brow. It comes away, and Robert falls back unconscious on the bed. Other than that, he seems none the worse for wear.
"Okay, scram," you tell Will, and he doesn't wait for a repeat of the order. "Wait for me in the study." Then you sit on the bed next to Robert.
You look him over carefully—his pulse and breathing are consistent with merely being asleep—before gently waking him. "Hey, Bobby," you call to him, using his childhood endearment. "Bobby buddy. Wake up?"
He stirs, opens his eyes, blinks at you, then bolts up.
"Shh," you tell him. "Are you okay?"
He gasps. "It was Will, Dad! He—"
"He what?"
Robert blinks and shakes his head. "He came in here," he says, "and he jumped on me with something, shoved it in my face. I couldn't breath, and then ..."
He trails off, and the little hairs on your body rise. "Then what?"
"Then I woke up and you were here!"
You look closely and deeply into his eyes. They are clear. "You don't remember anything after Will came in?" you ask. He shakes his head. "You didn't hear me come in?"
"No. Will just—" He turns red. "Will just socked me in the face and then—" He gingerly touches himself all over.
You look him over, too, and tell him that he's fit as a fiddle. "You must have fainted," you tell him. "I've already yelled a blue streak at your brother, and he won't do it again. It was just a prank that went wrong." Robert doesn't look mollified, but he doesn't make any more trouble.
At least not for you.
In the study, you tell Caleb that your hypothesis has been confirmed.
"The question now is," you say, "whether we use these masks to set us up a safe space at Salopek or at some other facility?"
"What's wrong with sticking to the clubhouse?" Caleb asks.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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