Very Last Gig!

(August 10-13, 2017)

21: Everybody's Talking

There's something in a Sunday.

And since midnight had come and gone, and this old world had kept on turning, yeah, it was Sunday morning. Technically. Just very early.

The vendors had closed down and locked up by 11:00 PM, back when it was Saturday. People had been leaving, walking back to their cars to avoid the crush, since shortly after that. The crowd had completely ebbed away from Woodstick by 12:50 AM on Sunday. A few minutes past 1:00 AM, Stanley and Stanford locked up the office. "Hey," Stan said to his brother, "you're worn out. You want me to drive you home? I'll be comin' back tomorrow morning early anyhow for the last day of Woodstick, give you a lift back so's you can get your car then."

"Kind of you," Stanford said. "But I'd rather drive home myself. It's not that far, and if you want you can follow me and give me a blast on the horn if I start to weave. But I think I'm all right to drive that far, anyway. Then I'm going to drop into bed for at least four hours of sleep."

"That's not enough," Stan said.

"I got by on less than that out in the Multiverse. Take care, Stanley."

In the misty glare of the security lights, Stan walked back to his car. Stanford's was close by because he had parked on the grass margin of the graveled lot near the exit, technically illegally, but nobody was about to hand out tickets in the VIP lot. Pushing his spectacles up and rubbing his eyes, he unlocked the driver's side door of his car and bent to enter. Then—

"Who are you?" he demanded, every nerve alert.

The thin fellow in the passenger seat stirred, yipped, and jumped. "I—oh, I went to sleep. I, I, I was supposed to wait for you—Mr. Pines? I didn't even know this was your car—"

"Supposed to wait for me? Who are you?" Ford asked, slipping behind the wheel.

The man's voice was hoarse and nervous: "My name's Wilmer Gunzell. I've been working for Ergman Bratsman, but I walked out on him this morning. I'm here because . . . I think I need to talk to you?"

He sounded so tentative that Ford made an instant decision. "Fasten your safety belt," he said. He still used a few terms that were current when he'd disappeared into the Portal but while he was away some of the words had changed. When he'd bought his first Lincoln, the restraint had been called a "three-point safety belt," and though in 2017 to everyone else they were just "seat belts," he had some difficulty adjusting. Like he still called his mobile phone a "computer phone."

Wilmer clicked the belt, which would prevent his changing his mind and jumping out of the car. Ford immediately started the engine. "What's Bratsman up to?" Ford asked. He no longer felt the least bit sleepy, but in the rear-view mirror he saw Stanley faithfully following along behind.

"It's something to do with getting Sev'ral Timez back," Wilmer said. "I think for some reason he wants to kidnap a girl named Mabel Pines—" he broke off in confusion. "I didn't think. Related to you?"

"My great-niece," Ford said.

"Oh. That's why he made me wait for you."

"Who made you wait?" Ford asked sharply—more brusquely than he'd meant. "Bratsman, you mean?"

"Oh, God, no!" Wilmer blurted. "If he knew I was talking to you, he'd kill me!"

It sounded as though Gunzell believed that. "Who told you, then?"

"This sounds so dumb. I don't know. Somebody told me, though, a guy who picked me up hitchhiking."

Instead of going to his own home, Ford drove to the Shack. It was dark, though the outside parking-lot lights shone bright. Two or three cars that had parked for Woodstick still waited in the lot. Ford glanced inside one, turned away quickly, and said, "I think a few people are, uh, sleeping in these tonight," even though the two young people he'd spied definitely were not asleep. "Is one of these cars Bratsman's?"

Gunzell looked around, rubbing his eyes and blinking. "No, I know his car, I was his driver. No, none of these."

"Come on inside." They went in through the family entrance, and Ford locked both the knob lock and the deadbolt—the kind that required a key both inside and outside. "Wait here just a moment," he said. He went to the gift shop, opened the secret door to the lab, and snatched a Mystery Shack tie off a rack. He returned to Wilmer and said, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to ask you to wear this as a blindfold."

"All right," Wilmer said.

Ford blindfolded him—and in his time in the Multiverse, he had learned to securely blindfold anything up to a creature with nine eyes—and then said, "Here hold onto my arm. I'll lead you."

At the open doorway, Ford stopped Gunzell and said, "Slide your right foot forward. There are steps. There, feel the edge? Step down. Hold onto my arm, I won't let you fall. Twelve more steps. One, two, three . . .."

At the bottom, Ford pressed the button that closed the vending-machine door. The laboratory lights came on automatically. "Forward. Stop for a moment. There, this is an elevator. Step forward. One more step. Fine. We're going down one floor, and you can take off the blindfold."

Wilmer did. In the fluorescent light, he looked bad, too skinny, his forehead too wrinkled, his skin shiny and speckled with flecks of road grime. "Where are we?" He asked. Then he blinked. "Oh, I guess that was what the blindfold was for, huh?"

"This way," Ford said. They went to the secure cubicle where Ford slept when he spent a night in his lab. "Do you want to, ah, shower?"

"I'd appreciate it," Wilmer said. In the car he'd begun to smell himself. A walk like the one he had made caused a man to sweat.

Ford showed him to the compact bathroom, toilet, sink, tiny shower stall barely large enough for a man to turn around in—though a thin fellow like Gunzell wouldn't have much of a problem—and left him soap, a heavy towel, and a bathrobe. "Toss your clothes outside the door. I'll clean them," he said.

"You don't have to—"

"No trouble, and it'll take only twenty minutes," Ford said.

The washer/dryer was one of Fiddleford McGucket's inventions. Too complex and expensive for retail sale, it used polymer beads instead of water (though a small amount of water later cleaned the beads) and once a load was clean, the beads tumbled into a collection bin for later, and the clothes dropped into a fast-drying compartment that used heated air, rapid tumbling, and infra-red light. Ten minutes in the wash, ten minutes to dry, and clothes emerged clean and fresh.

It took Wilmer about ten minutes to shower. He came out of the bathroom swaddled in a thick terrycloth robe, looking a little less miserable. "Thanks," he said.

"Don't mention it. Your outfit will be dry in a few minutes. Are you hungry? I have some MREs here, not for doomsday, but just for when I spend a lot of time here. They're not haute cuisine, but they're edible."

"No, I had some burgers earlier," Wilmer said. "Mr. Cash gave them to me."

"Mr. Cash?"

"John Cash," Wilmer said. "The guy who gave me a ride."

Ford, no particular fan of any kind of music, had heard of the singer. "John Cash as in 'Ring of Fire?'" he asked.

"I . . . no, not the country-western guy. Just a guy. He gave me a ride into town." Wilmer licked his lips. "I could use some water."

Ford poured him a tall, cold glass. "Tell me what you know about Ergman Bratsman and his plans," he said, covertly pressing a button that would record Wilmer's tale. "First, let me make sure I have your name right. Mr. Wilmer Gunzell, correct?"

"Yeah. I—see, I was in jail a few times. Nothing big, but thirty-day stretches, you know, some shoplifting when I was broke and hungry, loitering when I slept in a park because I had no money, stuff like that. And then one day about seven or eight years ago, I got a job with Mr. Bratsman down in California . . .."

By the time Wilmer had finished his story, his clothes were dry, and Ford gave him privacy to change back into them. "These are real clean," he said as he opened the door. "Thank you, Mr. Pines. You run the festival, right?"

Ford blinked. "Oh. No, that's my brother. I'm Dr. Stanford Pines. He's Mr. Stanley Pines. Confusing, I know."

"You're not the promoter? I don't know why Mr. Cash wanted me to wait in your car, then," Wilmer said.

Ford observed how unsteady Gunzell looked, swaying a little, drunk with exhaustion. "I think I do. You look fatigued. Stretch out here on the cot and try to sleep. But first, let me ask you just a few questions. Has Mr. Bratsman ever mentioned someone named Mammon? Or Mammonus?"

Gunzell's lips silently repeated the name. "I don't think so. I'm the only one working for him."

"Has he said anything about other helpers? Someone who'll aid him in getting the band back?"

Wilmer thought. "He's kind of hinted at it. Like he's got some, I don't know, buddies who might help him out."

"I see. Well, you rest here. Blankets are folded at the foot. I'm going to lock this room, for your own safety—there are devices here no one should touch. If you need anything, look over here, on the wall. This is an intercom. It connects directly to my phone. Press the button once to call. I won't be very far away, and I can be here in a matter of a minute or so. Is that acceptable?"

Wilmer could barely nod. Sleep fell on him like a warm blanket, and when Ford switched off the light, he was already dozing. He didn't even hear the key turn in the lock.

Ford tiptoed up to the attic, where Teek leaped up from the floor. "Who's there?"

"Just me," Ford said quietly as he switched on the landing light. "Good work though, standing sentry like that. I need to speak to Mason."

He tapped on the door, and from behind it, Dipper asked cautiously, "Who is it?"

"Me, Stanford," Ford said. "I have some news."

Dipper cautiously opened the door just a crack, and Ford glimpsed Wendy close behind him, grasping her axe. "Prove you're my Grunkle Ford," Dipper said.

Ford smiled. Ah, the good old Pines paranoia. It paid off surprisingly often. "I wrote an article about the Woodpecker Trap Tree based on your notes and photographs," he said. "We took joint credit for it when it appeared in the Journal of Zetetic Botany, Summer 2014 issue. Your first publication."

"OK." Dipper came out in tee shirt and jeans, but barefoot. "Will I need shoes?"

"No. Come to the lab."

Teek sat with his back against the door. "I'll wait up until you get back."

Downstairs, Ford and Dipper remained on the top level of Ford's laboratory. At a computer, Ford replayed the words of Wilmer Gunzell. "What do you make of that?" Ford asked.

"It sounds like Bratsman's mad at Mabel for persuading the Sev'ral Timez guys to run away," Dipper said. "What's he planning to do? Grab her and threaten her unless they come back?"

"That, or something more dire," Ford said. "Thanks to your discovery of that odd glyph, I'm nearly a hundred per cent persuaded that we're facing specific demonic interference. I'm guessing now, but if Bratsman summoned up the demon Mammon to help him, that's what we're up against."

Dipper frowned. "Mammon? So—wait, what makes you so sure?"

Ford pushed his glasses back into place. "I'm not certain, not absolutely. But it does make sense. Bratsman has always been a man motivated by a love of money. You heard how little he paid Mr. Gunzell to be his factotum. Excuse me, perhaps flunkey would be more apropos. And if Gunzell is right, Bratsman has considerable sums of ill-gotten gains stashed away. The Sev'ral Timez men have become moneymakers again, and that's a great part of his motivation. The rest is sheer spite. Gunzell says that Bratsman never gives up a grudge."

Dipper nodded. "Gunzell left out a few things, though. Where is he?"

"Down on the secure level."

"What!" Dipper looked shocked. "Grunkle Ford, there's so much he could—"

"He's locked in my emergency shelter," Ford said. He yawned. "I'm sorry to ask you this, but could you possibly stay down here for two hours? I've got to get a little sleep myself. If Gunzell calls, this intercom will let you talk to him. I'm taking the key to the secure shelter, so you can't let him out, if he asks. The intercom will also relay to my phone. I'm going to bunk in the guest room for a little bit of sleep. Oh, one more thing."

Dipper waited expectantly.

Slowly, Ford said, "Gunzell tells me that a man named John Cash advised him to wait for me, evidently to provide him protection against Bratsman."

"So?" Dipper asked.

"Cash. Mammon today generally means 'wealth.' Why would Bratsman's demon send Gunzell to me? If Gunzell should call, don't go downstairs. Wait for me. Trust no one, Mason. Trust no one."

Dipper nodded. He had heard that before.

Ford yawned. "We'll puzzle it out later. Right now I have to get some sleep. Then I'll come and relieve you. I have work to do down here."

"What?" Dipper asked.

"Why, I have to discover how to send a demon back to hell," Ford said.

In Gravity Falls, that made sense.

Ergman Bratzman woke up from a sound sleep to screech like an alarmed ferret. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Mammonus, standing by his bedside in the yellow glow of an inadequate bedside lamp said, "Getting ready for the big night tomorrow. Almost everything is in order. Here are the agreements for, well, we'll call it shipping and disposal—"

Bratsman, his voice still sleep-slurred, muttered, "For what?"

Mammonus sighed. "You want safe passage for the boys in the musical group, yes? No one trying to stop you until you take them to your place of business? And after the, um, necessity that must seal the deal, you don't want a mangled body showing up at Woodstick, inviting an investigation? The death must be obviously from natural causes. Trust me, the police are damnably inventive. Even an eyelash could give them enough DNA to identify and involve you."

"What, what, you wake me up for this crap?" Bratsman snarled. "You handle this!"

Sorrowfully, Mammon said, "Well, if you don't want to take precautions—"

"Who said I didn't? What do you want now?"

"It's three documents requiring just your signature. If you care to read them—"

"Gimme," Bratsman said.

Mammonus handed him three brief typed sheets and a ballpoint. "On the bottom line," he said, helpfully opening the bedside table drawer. "There's a book if you need something to rest them on."

Bratsman himself took out the Gideon Bible.

"I'll wait while you read them through—" Mammonus said.

"Here!" Bratsman practically slashed his signature once, twice, three times, then thrust the papers toward his visitor. "Now can I sleep?"

Mammonus took the three sheets back. "Of course. No, no, keep the pen. I won't bother you again. But I'll see you tomorrow night."

"Get out of here!" barked Bratsman.

"Pleasant dreams," Mammonus said. And he snapped his fingers and was gone.