Chapter 2: The Nautical Shop
The Nautical Shop. Friday afternoon.
"Any visions yet?" Mozzie asked eagerly.
Neal shook his head. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to be looking for." It was frustrating. They'd arrived a half-hour ago and nothing was happening. He felt more than a little foolish. When they'd asked the proprietor, Caleb Truxton, if anything unusual had happened in his shop recently, he looked like he suspected them of playing a prank on him.
"Your vision might not have been about an event but some object in the store," Peter speculated.
Peter's idea was a good one, but to hunt through the entire shop could take days. The shop supplied the entire Northeastern Seaboard with navigational instruments, binoculars, and telescopes. In addition to the instruments on display, the storeroom in the back was filled with boxes of equipment.
They decided to concentrate on the antique section of the shop because it bore the closest resemblance to Neal's vision. Neal wandered down the aisles filled with display cases of gleaming brass instruments. Was a starfish laced with algolnium lurking behind a cabinet? Would he be able to detect the presence of a ghast? Peter and Mozzie were equally unsure about what they were supposed to do. Mozzie followed him like a squirrel hoping for a handout. This was a bad idea.
Neal stopped at a case filled with armillary spheres ranging from the simple to the insanely complex.
"I have a collection of these in my office," Mozzie said. "When I interview a prospective teaching assistant, one of my initial tests is to make them explain how armillary spheres operate. You'd be shocked at how many don't even know the rings represent celestial great circles or that both Copernican and Ptolemaic versions exist."
"About as many as can't read cuneiform," Peter said, surveying the instruments.
One armillary sphere, in particular, caught Neal's eye. It was one of the most complex instruments with multiple layers of intricately engraved brass rings. Mozzie had tried to explain to Neal once how they were used to model objects in the sky, but Neal didn't have the right kind of head to understand the concept. He was more attracted to the beauty of the instrument. Neal stared at it, his eyes piercing through the rings, down to the inner globe of the sphere.
The brass dissolved into a shimmering golden haze. Gently he blew on the haze to disperse it, and a room was revealed as if at the end of a long brass tunnel. It was the same antique section of the shop he was standing in. Was the sphere acting like a mirror? And yet, it wasn't the same. The shop was dark with only a few security lights on. A vision from the past? Or the future?
Gradually Neal became aware of another presence. A figure emerged from a dark recess in the corner. He wore black clothes and a hood, similar to their assailants in the rare bookstore a couple of weeks ago. Stealthily it approached the display and seized the armillary sphere Neal had been looking at. The thief appeared not to notice Neal but covered the sphere with a cloth and carried it toward the front of the shop. He paused at a display of nautical clocks, set the sphere down on a cabinet, and spun around to face Neal.
His clothes dissolved or Neal saw through them. Impossible to tell. All he knew was that in front of him was no human but a ghast. Its eyes blazed with hatred as it lunged for him.
With a cry, Neal sprang backward but the ghast wrapped its claws around him and drew him close, his jaws opening wide for the kill. Neal struggled. He felt its fangs on his neck—
"Hey, take it easy! That's my arm, you know."
The scene vanished to reveal Peter crouched in front of him. He'd laid a hand on Neal's shoulder to support him. That was Peter's arm Neal was gripping, not the limb of a ghast. "Sorry," he muttered, releasing his hold.
"Who'd you think I was?" he asked with a laugh, shaking his arm. "A ghast?" His smile vanished when he saw Neal's reaction. "I was a ghast."
Neal nodded, catching his breath. From somewhere they'd found a chair and he was sitting in front of the case of armillary spheres. Mozzie was scribbling notes into a notebook. Great. He'd yet again proven his usefulness as a lab rat.
Neal reported what had occurred. "Since nothing out of the ordinary has happened in the shop, if you want to ascribe a meaning to this, I'd have to say that what we're looking at is a future crime scene."
Mozzie closed his notebook. "You're positive this is the sphere the ghast stole?"
At Neal's nod, Mozzie called out to the shop owner, "Caleb, you can wrap this one up. I'm taking it with me."
Neal stared at his friend. "Did you see the price tag?"
Mozzie waved his hand dismissively. "A pittance for such an object of fascination. It will go well with my collection and I can't conduct all the experiments I'm planning for it—and you—in these cramped quarters."
"We need to let Diana know," Peter declared.
"Tell her I had a vision of a ghast? She doesn't know anything about ghasts. She'll think I'm certifiable."
Mozzie peered into the display case at the sphere. "Who's Diana?" he asked absently.
"Detective Diana Briscoe," Peter explained. "She's with the Arkham police. I let Neal talk me into not telling her about his encounter with the ghast in the bookstore, but we can't put it off any longer."
Mozzie turned to study Neal. "You're still looking a little green. I doubt Caleb has brandy around." He shook his head in disapproval. "Never mind, we'll make do with water." He took off for the front of the store.
Peter stood up. "I know this is a big step, but you said it yourself. This is a future crime scene. If we don't say something, a criminal could break into the Nautical Shop. Caleb could be killed. You told me you felt guilty over Seth's murder. How will you feel if history repeats itself and you hadn't warned the police?"
Peter was right, but Diana trusted Neal's ability. She thought he'd be able to decrypt the starfish language. What would she think now? That he was too loony to be counted on for anything?
Mozzie returned with the glass of water. "Caleb's writing up the invoice now. Soon this beauty will be mine. I'll call Cyrus. He'll want to analyze it."
Neal knew that was only the beginning. Mozzie would want Neal to gaze at the armillary sphere for long hours which could be much better spent in the library vault. Neal gulped down the water as he gloomily contemplated what his future as a lab rat would be like. At Mozzie's insistence, he'd already repeatedly stared at the ruby crystal in his drawing with nothing happening. Visions appeared to be a one-time phenomenon. Maybe Mozzie could use a substitute. "How about Travis?" Neal suggested hopefully. "He helps you with your other experiments. I'm sure he'd be a willing volunteer."
"Who's Travis?" Peter asked.
"Travis Mayweather," Mozzie explained. "Assistant Professor of Astrophysics. Bright lad. Yes, he'll do nicely as a control, and his mechanical expertise will be useful." He paused for a moment and jotted down more notes. "But I'll still need you," he warned. "Keep your schedule free."
"I'm heading to the police station," Peter declared. He turned to Neal and raised a brow. "You ready? We'll stop by your place first to pick up your drawing of the ghast. She'll want to photograph it." Neal exhaled and nodded reluctantly. They were supposed to be working with the police. Keeping secrets from them wasn't the way to cooperate. At the worst, Diana would simply laugh in his face. She wouldn't immediately haul him off to the funny farm . . . probably.
Peter slapped him on the back. "You just stared down a ghast. Facing Diana can't compare with that, right? Neal?"
"Don't rush me. I'm thinking."
#
If it had been up to Neal, he and Peter wouldn't be sitting at the police station. Peter was the one who insisted on the necessity of reporting his vision at the Nautical Shop to Diana. Peter saw the possibility of preventing a break-in. All Neal saw was an impending disaster.
The last time he'd had a vision of a crime—Seth's murder in the rare bookstore—he hadn't told Diana about it. The murder had already occurred by the time he arrived at the bookstore so there was no reason to. As it was, she still accused him of being psychic.
But this vision was different. You saw a clock. You know when it will happen. Those words were Peter's, not Neal's. And he was right, of course, but no one would accuse Peter of being a lunatic.
When Diana saw them enter the police station, she led them into the small interrogation room they'd used before, a windowless room sparsely furnished with a large table and a few uncomfortable wooden chairs. The room was designed to convey the message that the Arkham Police Department didn't waste tax dollars on anything that would remotely make a suspected criminal—or a college professor—feel at ease.
"Tell me you deciphered the starfish script." Diana crossed her arms in anticipation.
Her disappointment was obvious when Neal reported his lack of progress.
"Have you learned anything more about the assailants in the bookstore?" Peter asked. Neal appreciated him switching the subject off that sensitive topic. "Any new theories on why the injured man died so unexpectedly?"
Diana shook her head. "The autopsy didn't reveal any preexisting conditions that could have caused him to die from a wound such as the one he received. Blood loss was minimal. There was some evidence of coronary artery disease, so the official report provisionally states the cause of death to be a heart attack. We haven't been able to apprehend the other assailant."
"Have there been any other cases involving starfish?" Neal asked.
"Not since the one on September fifteenth which I already told you about. You know I would have called you if another one had been found. Is this simply a social call or do you have another reason for taking up my time?"
Why did she glare at him rather than Peter? Did she think he was easier to intimidate? Was she so abrasive with everyone? Neal had been wavering about whether or not to mention the ghast, but she decided it for him. Peter was starting to speak, but Neal jumped in first. Clearing his throat, he assumed his most professorial manner. "I'd like to report another crime."
She stared at him. "Do you mean another murder? When? Where? Why haven't I heard about it?"
"Because it hasn't happened yet," Neal said forcefully. Out of the corner of his eye, he relished Peter's half-smile of approval. Naturally, that wasn't Diana's reaction. Her scowl would have frozen a stampeding rhinoceros in its tracks, but Neal stood his ground. He attempted to radiate self-confidence to reassure her that his wits were still intact.
"What's this nonsense? How can you report something that hasn't even happened?"
"The how is irrelevant. What's important is that we need to prevent it." He'd meant his words to be decisive, but they came out more like a question.
"Diana, we haven't been completely forthright with you," Peter added. "Neal had a vision of the murder in the bookstore before it happened." Her eyebrows ascended into her Afro. Peter took advantage of her momentary shocked silence to explain Neal's vision in the alehouse.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she exclaimed.
"Because you wouldn't have believed me," Neal said. She grudgingly acknowledged the truth of his words with a shrug. "It was the first time I'd ever had a vision, and I didn't know what was happening. I saw Seth being killed in my head and when I arrived at the bookstore, it was just as in my vision. This time, the crime hasn't happened yet, and there's a chance we could prevent it. Don't you at least want to hear about it?"
She exhaled sharply, studying both of them for what seemed like an eternity. "Normally, if someone came in with a tale like this, I'd call for the straitjackets, but not now. We're faced with a series of crimes where the evidence poofs out of existence on us. We have perps who die under mysterious circumstances, precious few clues, and a strange language which I'm assured you're the only one who's capable of cracking. Don't misunderstand me—I make no guarantee I'll believe you, but go ahead and tell me what you saw or think you saw." She sat back in her chair, the frown never leaving her face.
Neal hurried to describe his visions in the loft and the shop before she changed her mind. "In the second vision, I was at the entrance to the antique section. It was late at night. I happened to glance at one of the clocks on display and it indicated a time of 22:15. As I drew close to the point where I was standing in reality, I saw an individual clothed in black like the attacker in the bookstore. He wrapped up the armillary sphere I was looking at. Perhaps he heard me—I don't know—but he spun around, and that's when I . . . umm . . . when I . . . came to."
"I was with him," Peter added. "Neal is a brilliant, well-respected member of the faculty. He doesn't go around inventing wild tales. He's not prone to hallucinations." Neal wished that was true. He doubted many on the faculty even knew who he was. And as for the hallucinations . . . Still, he appreciated the endorsement.
She continued to eye him skeptically. "Did you see a starfish in your vision-dream-psychic hallucination or whatever you were having?"
"No," Neal admitted, steeling himself for another barrage. "But I'm convinced a burglary will occur. I intend to be there tonight."
"And I'll be there with him," Peter added in a determined voice.
"Are you both nuts now?" Despite her words, Neal could tell she was not dismissing what he said completely. She drummed her fingers on the table for a moment and appeared to come to a decision. "Two days ago, Hiram Whateley reported he'd discovered a book missing from his bookstore. He's been conducting an inventory since the break-in. He can't be certain the book was taken at the time of the murder. I gather his inventory system is as ancient as his books." She turned to Neal. "Did he mention the loss to you?"
"No, I haven't spoken with him for several days."
She nodded. "I had to ask. The missing book is a nineteenth-century German treatise on armillary sphere construction." She smiled at their reaction. "I thought you'd be interested. So, perhaps there is something to this vision of yours. But if you're convinced a burglar will hit the store, why not simply warn the shop owner not to be there in the evening? He'll be out of harm's way, and if a thief does break in, no innocents will be injured. You have nothing to indicate the burglary will happen tonight, tomorrow, next year, or next century."
"You're right," Neal said, "but the murder at the bookstore took place at roughly the same time as my vision. That leads me to conclude there's a good chance the break-in will occur this evening." He hesitated for a moment. Should he? Diana knew about the visions. How much more could his credibility suffer? "I need to be there . . . to see the thief. I saw his face in my vision and I have to know if it's the same."
"You saw his face?" Diana echoed, her face lighting up. "Now we're getting somewhere. I'll pull out our mug books. If you can identify him, you'll have company tonight."
She started to rise, but Neal raised a hand to stop her. "He won't be in any of your mug books."
"Why not?" she demanded.
"Because . . . he wasn't human." Neal exhaled in relief. Embrace the madness, Mozzie had said. He'd be pleased Neal followed his advice.
For the next several minutes he and Peter reviewed the ghasts Neal had seen—the first occurrence in the rare bookstore, the ghast Neal had seen on the street one evening, and now the one at the Nautical Shop. They showed her his drawing. Since Diana had never heard of the library vault or the Necronomicon, it took a while. In a rare gesture, she even offered them some of the police station's coffee. It was appreciated. Neal was running on fumes by this point, and even police station swill seemed like nectar of the gods.
"You know what my response is," she said at the end. "Show me the proof that all this is something more than the delusions of an academic who I admit at my insistence has probably been staring far too long at starfish." She waggled her finger at him. "And I warn you upfront that a sketch in a medieval book or the drawing you made doesn't count as evidence."
At least she hadn't called for the padded wagon. Neal was going to take that as a victory of sorts.
"You give us a rational explanation for why the starfish disappeared from your evidence vault," Peter countered. "You tell us why the assailant in the bookstore died so unexpectedly. Neal saw a ghast on the street one night, and a few hours later, another murder was committed with a starfish left at the scene. At the bookstore where he saw the ghast, a starfish was found. You can't deny there may be a connection between the two. You called us in to help you because you were at a loss to explain the starfish. And that's what we're trying to do."
Diana made a face as she studied them. "I gather I'd have to lock you up to keep you from returning to the Nautical Shop tonight?"
When they nodded in unison, she said with a sigh, "I suppose I'm willing to sacrifice a couple of hours from my Friday evening to join you. Jones will as well. If I'm wrecking my social life, he can too." She told them to return at 9 o'clock. They'd drive to the location in an unmarked surveillance van.
Peter and Neal left the police station together. Peter was heading home where Elizabeth was waiting for him. She'd drawn the night shift tonight, and they'd catch an early supper before she needed to leave. Neal planned to spend the time at his usual Friday night date scene—the library vault.
His first stakeout. What do you wear? How do you pass the time? Tell jokes? Did he know any jokes? They probably wouldn't appreciate Old Norse humor. Should he take snacks? Nah. In all the cop shows he'd watched, the police were amply provisioned with coffee and donuts.
#
"Neal told Diana about ghasts? And she still agreed to let you participate in a stakeout?" El smiled as she took the lasagna out of the oven and set it on the counter. "You don't give her enough credit."
Peter finished tossing the salad and reached into the cabinet for the croutons. "Neal surprised me. On the way to the police station, he must have spent fifteen minutes arguing what a bad idea it was to tell her about ghasts. Then he went ahead and did it. I suspect he's half-convinced himself he's schizophrenic and the thought terrifies him."
They took their plates and drinks into the dining room and sat down at the table.
"I believe you're right," El said. "When he came in Monday for the latest round of tests, he asked me what I knew about John Nash's illness."
"The mathematician?"
"That's right," she said, dishing out the salad. "Neal had researched his case. Nash has been open in discussing the delusions and hallucinations associated with his schizophrenia. It's clear Neal is concerned about how similar they sound to the phenomena he's experienced."
"Nash's work in mathematics and computer science has been revolutionary. I wouldn't be surprised if one day he wins the Nobel Prize. He's now returned to teaching. His situation should give Neal reassurance that even if he does receive a similar diagnosis, it's not necessarily the end of his career."
She shook her head. "I doubt Neal would agree with you. Nash was institutionalized for many years in psychiatric hospitals. His struggle with the disease has been a lengthy one. I read that as a result he refuses any further treatment. Neal could look at his example and extrapolate what would happen to a first-year member of the faculty. Nash's brilliance was recognized before he showed any symptoms. Neal has yet to prove himself."
El's insights were troubling and shed new light on his hesitancy to talk with Diana. "If Neal is concerned he'll suffer a similar fate, that could help explain why he's pushing himself so much. I thought it was because of Kate but this could also be a factor. You know where he is now?"
She gave him a knowing look. "It wouldn't happen to be the library by any chance?"
Peter chuckled. "Where else? I tried to talk him out of it, even inviting him to join us for dinner, but he begged off. He made a joke out of it. Can you believe he ribbed me for acting like a dad?" Peter paused in mid-bite. "I'm not that way at all, am I?"
El eyed him skeptically. "Hon . . . have you been going grizzly on him?"
Peter winced. "Yeah, probably. He has a talent for bringing it out."
"I wonder if his anxiety isn't partly derived from the stories revolving around the Arkham Sanitarium. It's been closed for thirty years now, but tales about some of the inmates persist. I wish they'd tear down the building."
"I heard the Arkham Historical Society is fighting the demolition," Peter said. "They claim it's an architectural treasure. But I'm with you— it's a depressing reminder of a dark period in Arkham's history."
"I've gotten back the second set of test results and planned to discuss them with Neal next week at my office, but it may be better to go ahead this weekend. We could have him over for dinner tomorrow. I'll be off. After working the night shift, I'm not scheduled for anything till next week."
"Have you reached any conclusions?" Peter asked uneasily.
She nodded, setting down her fork. "I have, but I know you understand that I'd rather discuss them with Neal present. The findings will be difficult for him to hear. I'm glad you'll be present too. He'll need our support."
What was El preparing him for? But Peter knew better than to quiz her further. She could regret having mentioned it. "I'll invite him when I see him tonight. I'm sure he'll be free. I don't think he has any social life to speak of. He had a raw deal with Kate. It's going to take him a while to get over it."
"What happened to Kate was such a tragedy. When was the plane crash? January?"
"December 29," Peter corrected. "She was heading back to the dig in Java."
"I remember now. If you hadn't cut your holiday short to get a head start, you could have been on the same plane." El fell silent.
Peter reached over to squeeze her hand. "I overheard Kate talk about someone she was dating when she was on the dig in the fall. She was planning to spend Christmas in England. It must have been to visit Neal. He told me he'd proposed over the holiday. It can't be easy to move on after something like that."
"I may be able to obtain a couple of extra tickets to the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young concert next weekend. The event is sold out but one of my colleagues at the hospital is on the Events Advisory Committee. We could ask Neal to join us and encourage him to bring a date."
"I like the idea but let's not mention the word date. He's built quite a wall around himself, and I don't think he's ready to lower the drawbridge."
El shrugged. "He just needs a little encouragement. I could fix him up, but I'm sure he'd object to that. Has he mentioned anyone?"
El, the matchmaker. Should he warn Neal about his wife's propensity to want to see everyone happily married off? If he did, he predicted Neal would bolt for the exit. "There's Sara. She's a friend from his undergrad days. Works as an investigative journalist for the Arkham Gazette. We bumped into her at the police station. I could suggest he invite her to join us. It wouldn't seem like a date and may not spook him."
Peter didn't place high odds on success, but he didn't want to dampen El's enthusiasm. Even if Neal didn't go along with the idea, simply considering it would be a healthy start.
Notes: Peter and El's discussion of Nash was factually accurate. Nash's biography, A Beautiful Mind, was made into a movie. Peter was being prophetic when he mentioned the Nobel Prize. Nash was awarded the Nobel Memorial Prize in Economic Sciences for his work in game theory in 1994. At the time of this story, Nash was no longer institutionalized. He had resumed his research and was once again teaching.