Chapter Twelve

Steve paced his sparsely furnished office. Each time he glanced up at the man on his ratty couch he was filled with a new sense of disbelief. Why hadn't he called the little men in white jackets yet? Or an ambulance at least. Lieutenant Tragg had been ranting about a voice in his head. And he seemed so weakened that it was incredible he had wandered all the way there from the hospital. He clearly needed help.

Tragg sighed and shuddered, running a hand through his graying hair. "It sounds like Maureen," he whispered.

Steve snapped to attention. "What sounds like Maureen?" he demanded.

"The voice," Tragg said. "When it comes. And when it comes, I start to lose control of my will."

Alright, now Steve was fully disturbed. He reached for the phone.

"Who are you calling?" Tragg boomed.

The reaction was such a surprise that Steve dropped the receiver. "Someone who can help you better I can," he said. "I'm a private eye. I don't know how to cure voices in the head."

Tragg pounded his fist on the couch arm. "Blast it, I'm not crazy!" he snarled. "There's something else wrong." He slumped back into the couch. The sight of Drumm going for the phone had roused him from his stupor, but his outburst had taken most of what was left of his strength.

Steve perched on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. "What else?" he countered. "Look, Lieutenant—you're not well. You don't look like you can even get up again."

Tragg gave a weak shake of his head. "She was doing something to me," he said. "I don't understand what it was, but I . . . I felt my strength leaving me as she was doing it."

Steve shot him a piercing look. "Did she drug you?" he demanded.

Tragg gazed into the distance, considering the query. "No," he said slowly. "I don't think so. There was this . . . purple glow coming from an old metal box. A box that . . ." He stiffened.

"A box that what?" Steve got down from the desk, leaning forward.

". . . That looked like the one Mr. Burger has been talking about," Tragg said. "He said Mrs. Germaine thinks it's partially responsible for turning the city upsidedown."

If he had not had Steve's complete attention before, he certainly did now. Steve stared at him. "She thinks something's wrong in the city?" he exclaimed.

"Yeah." Tragg shrugged. "I haven't believed it. I thought Mr. Burger was losing his grasp on sanity. I'm still not sure. I just know Maureen had that old box . . . and that something came out of it and wrapped around me. . . ." He shuddered.

Steve was not sure what to think either. This sounded outlandish. But at last someone was aware that there was a problem! He grabbed the phone again. "I want to talk to this Mrs. Germaine," he said. "Do you know how to reach her?"

"Eh. Through the district attorney, most likely," Tragg said. "I can't remember if she's in the phone book."

"We'll soon find out." Steve leafed through the phone book, soon locating the correct number. He dialed, but the phone only rang and kept ringing. In exasperation he slammed down the receiver. "Nevermind that. What's the district attorney's number?"

"Look it up," Tragg grumped. His head was pounding. He brought his hands up to his temples. The more he tried to ignore the voice, the more it hurt. And the more he heard the voice, the harder it was to ignore.

Steve frowned. "You wanted me to help you," he pointed out. "Just what did you think I could do?"

". . . I don't know," Tragg admitted. "I'm sorry, I . . ." He shut his eyes. "I can still hear that voice. It's making me quite disagreeable, I'm afraid."

The sudden pounding on the door made them both jump a mile. "Open up!" an unfamiliar voice yelled. "We know you have Tragg in there."

Steve tensed, reaching for the gun in his shoulder holster. "Who are you?" he shouted back. He caught a glance at Tragg. The other man was stiff but confused. He did not know who was out there.

"That doesn't matter," the voice said. "But if you don't open up, we're going to kick this door in. And if you don't hand him over, we're going to start shooting."

"If you open this door you'll get a bullet in your brain," Steve threatened, leveling the gun at the door. "Not unless you tell me who you are and what authority you have to break in here."

Tragg looked to him, his eyes filled with worry and concern. "Is there another way out?" he asked.

Steve shook his head. "Just through the window." He glanced at it. No one appeared to be outside, but they could be hiding, just waiting for an escape attempt.

He returned his attention to the door. He had received no reply. And now the door was being kicked in. He had to make a split-second decision. If these people had the proper authority, they would have identified themselves. He fired point-blank at the door and grabbed for Tragg. "We're getting out of here," he said. "Come on!"

Tragg struggled to his feet. The impending danger fueled what little was left of his strength. As Steve threw a chair at the window, shattering it, gunfire erupted in the room.

"Watch it!" one man yelled. "You're not supposed to kill him. They want him alive! Kill the P.I., but not him!"

"You won't have the satisfaction of getting either of us!" Tragg snapped over his shoulder. He climbed onto the windowsill and into the plants on the other side, being careful of the glass shards. Steve was right behind him, returning fire as he went. A cry from one of the men said loud and clear that the shot had found its mark.

"You owe me an explanation!" he said, keeping hold of Tragg's coat sleeve as they ran for his car. "What are those men talking about and why are they so interested in you?"

"I would like to hear that explanation myself!" Tragg retorted. "I can't think of any reason why, unless . . ." He faltered, nearly grinding to a halt. "Unless Mr. Burger is right," he finished. A small tremor shook the ground under his feet.

Bullets sailed overhead. "We'll talk about it on the way!" Steve urged. "Come on!"

Tragg came back to himself, hurrying after his new ally. Their pursuers were right behind them.

Steve fumbled with his keys as they ran. He led the way to an old and dark sedan, sticking the key in the lock and hauling open the door. "Get in!" he ordered. "I'm right behind you."

Tragg managed to climb into the car and over the driver's seat to the passenger side. Steve was in within the next minute. The engine revved and they were off.

Tragg breathed heavily. "I haven't . . . been so active . . . in a while," he gasped. "I've been too weak from . . . whatever that woman was doing." He pulled down the seatbelt, clicking it into place.

Steve glanced at him. "Where do you want to go?" he asked. "The D.A.'s office? The police station?"

"Mr. Burger might not be in yet," Tragg frowned. "I think he was up most of the night."

Gunfire whistled past the side of the car. Their enemies had loaded into their own vehicle and were now in hot pursuit.

"Oh great," Steve muttered. "It's been a while since I've been in a high-speed chase. I don't know if my car's up to this." He pushed on the accelerator.

At the same moment came a second tremor, far more powerful than the first. The car began to shake. Steve fought to keep control of the wheel. "We can't drive through this!" he exclaimed. "I have to pull over."

"Are they pulling over?" Tragg returned.

Steve looked in the rear-view mirror. "No," he said. "No matter what we do now, we're sitting ducks."

xxxx

Elsewhere in town, Hamilton pulled over to the side of the road as the earthquake began. Next to him, Della tensed in worry.

"It's getting worse," she exclaimed.

Hamilton nodded, shutting off the engine. "This time we might have a lot of damage to deal with," he said. Between the earthquake and whatever aftershocks there could be, they could be in for a lot of trouble. "When it rains, it pours," he added in disgust.

He glanced up at the sky. Sure enough, what must be the bubble was flickering dangerously. But he froze as a jagged pinkish-purple bolt cut the air in the distance and struck an unknown surface.

Della saw it too. "It's making its own lightning?" she cried in disbelieving horror.

"It looks that way," Hamilton acknowledged. Now he was greatly troubled. "Try calling Perry again," he said. "I'll try Paul."

Her fingers trembling, Della got out her phone and began to dial. At her side, Hamilton was doing the same thing. For an agonizing moment the phone rang with no answer. But then at last, as the ground began to settle, there was a click.

"Hello?"

"Perry!" Della exclaimed. ". . . Oh, excuse me, Mr. Mason. Are you alright?"

"Fine," Perry returned. His voice sounded slightly strained. "What about you, Della? . . . Miss Street. Are you alright?"

"Yes," Della said, glancing at Hamilton for confirmation. "Where are you? Have you found Paul or Lieutenant Tragg yet?"

"No, I haven't," said Perry. "I'm with Mr. Anderson. I met him while looking for Tragg. He had thought of another place to look for the file on that field trip. We're in the school basement."

"Are you sure you're alright?" Della pressed. "You sound like you're hurt."

"It's nothing," Perry tried to assure her. "Where are you, by the way?"

"I'm with Mr. Burger," Della said. "We pulled over when the earthquake hit." She stared out the window. While there was not too much visible debris on this street, a streetlamp was now standing at a distinct angle, the grass around it was uprooted, and a house near it had sustained structural damage. In the distance, ambulance sirens were wailing.

"Well, be careful," warned Perry. "I wish I was there with you right now."

"We're both fine," Della said. "Don't worry about us."

Static filled the connection. Della tensed, her eyes widening in confused alarm. "Hello? Perry? Are you there?"

Then there was nothing. She pulled the phone back, staring at the screen. No Signal flashed in silent reply.

Hamilton shut his phone with a snap. "I couldn't reach Paul," he reported. "Then the line just went dead."

Della nodded. "Perry and I were cut off." She looked to Hamilton, worry in her eyes. "I'm not sure he's alright. He sounded like he might be hurt."

Hamilton frowned. "Did he say where he is?"

"With Mr. Anderson in the school basement," Della said. "They met up while Perry was looking for Lieutenant Tragg."

Hamilton decided not to bring Della's attention to the fact that she had been saying Perry. "So they're in the Valley then," he mused. "Let's go there. We'll look for Tragg and Paul on the way."

Della was relieved, but she could not help feeling alarmed at the sight outside the window. "What about what's been done to Los Angeles?" she said quietly.

Hamilton did not answer. They both had the feeling that this street had been one of the luckier ones. From the increasing number of sirens, the damage and injuries were high.

Still not speaking, he started the engine and drove away. Della's wordlessness said that perhaps she did not really want the answer he could give.

xxxx

Andy pushed on the stubborn door one final time. At last it creaked, giving way under the pressure. Fresh air poured in from the stairwell.

"We can get out," he reported, looking back to Perry.

Perry clutched his arm as the blood seeped between his fingers. "Good," he said. "Let's go before an aftershock decides against it for us. I'm worried about Della." He pushed himself away from the wall, stepping around the old, fallen cardboard boxes in his path.

Andy watched him, the guilt flickering in his eyes. "We shouldn't have come in here," he berated. "It's my fault you're hurt. And we didn't find the file anyway."

"It was my choice to come here with you," Perry said. "It was not your fault." He glanced down at the fallen folders. One sheet of paper now on the floor had caught his attention. "And what's this?" He bent to pick it up.

Andy's jaw dropped. "Not the missing file?"

Perry came over to him, half-scanning through it. "That, I couldn't say," he admitted. "What do you think?"

Andy took it, stepping farther into the light from upstairs. "I think it is," he gasped. "Or part of it, anyway." He glowered at the paper. "Whoever typed this didn't finish filling it in. All it says is that there was a field trip on the designated date and gives the name of the host as D. Greenbrier."

"Greenbrier," Perry mused.

Andy regarded him in surprise. "Does that ring a bell?"

Perry shook his head. "I have this feeling it should mean something, but it isn't coming to me." As the floor trembled he tensed. "Quick, let's get out of here."

Andy needed no convincing. He hastened up the steps, with Perry right on his heels.

The scene on the main floor left them both stunned. Several of the ceiling light fixtures had been jarred loose and were hanging at odd angles. They would have been sparking dangerously if Andy had not turned off the electricity at the main breaker in the basement. Plaster and other debris was spread across the floor and in the many open doorways.

"Is anyone else here?" Perry wondered.

"No," Andy said. "There wasn't school today. I unlocked the building myself and locked it after you came in."

"Then let's just leave," Perry said.

Andy surveyed the damage and nodded. "I'm worried about Miss Street too," he confessed. "And your detective and Lieutenant Tragg. Where are all these people going?"

"They may not be in the same place at all," Perry said.

They were walking up the corridor to the door when the aftershock hit in full force. Tumbling off-balance from the sudden shock, they crashed to the floor. Perry grimaced at the further injury dealt to his right arm. The pain was stabbing, the blood coming much faster.

Andy looked up when the building stopped shaking. "Are you alright?" he asked.

Perry looked at his arm. "I'll live," he said.

Andy came to him in concern. "I should treat that before we leave," he exclaimed.

"No." Perry got to his feet, holding his arm up to curb the flow of blood. "I'll be fine until we get to the car. I have a first-aid kit in the trunk."

"And you might pick up a cellphone signal outside," Andy deduced.

Perry nodded. "That too," he admitted.

Andy sighed. "Alright, let's get out there before something else goes wrong."

The scene outside was not encouraging. A fire hydrant had broken, sending a geyser of water high into the flashing sky. Tree branches and pieces of the school's roof were scattered over the path, the street, and on top of cars. And when Perry pulled out his phone, No Signal continued to insistently mock him. He shoved it back in his pocket in disgust.

"Well, this is a disaster zone," Andy said, throwing up his hands.

Perry frowned. "I wonder where the epicenter is," he mused.

Andy blinked. "Where do you think it might be?" he wondered.

"I haven't the faintest idea," Perry said. "But it just occurred to me—if Paul and Mr. Burger have been right, and if all of this activity is not caused by nature but instead by magic, then perhaps if we find the epicenter we may find Mr. Vann and his elusive box."

Andy stared. "You could have a point," he admitted. "I'll treat your arm and then we'll add the epicenter to our list of things to find."

Perry nodded. "Of course, on the other hand the shaking could be originating from all around us, at the edges of this bizarre bubble we're in," he continued. "But the first option is worth a try, at least."

"And we'll keep trying the radio for updates," Andy added. They reached Perry's car and he unlocked the trunk. Andy lifted out the first-aid kit.

"If the radio works at all," Perry said. "It may not have a signal either."

That, they soon discovered, was quite true. Andy sighed in discouragement as he finished applying the bandage moments later. "Well, now what?" he said. He closed the first-aid kit with a bang.

Perry gave him a nod of thanks. "Now I believe we should check on the Petersons," he said. "They live around here and they have quite a stake in what happens."

Andy considered that briefly before nodding in consent. "Young Howie is the godson of both Mignon Germaine and Hamilton Burger," he remembered.

"And it was the trunk found in his family's home that housed the box," Perry said. "If we can locate them, perhaps they should all come with us."

Andy blinked in surprise. "Maybe so," he said. "If they'll listen."

"Howie will listen," Perry said. "I'm almost sure of that. It's his parents I wonder about."

xxxx

Tragg brought a shaking hand to his head, covering the right side of his face as his temples pounded. They were still on the road, even after the first aftershock. And their pursuers still caught a glimpse of them every few blocks or so. Those hitmen were keeping track as best as they could while dodging the debris on the streets.

He was growing weak again. He had not been strong enough to leave the hospital; of course he realized that. He had not left of his own free will. The voice in his head had been fierce at that point, able to control his actions by its very words. It had only been outside and several blocks away that he had managed to wrestle back control of his body. He had no idea why he had gone to Steve Drumm for help. Most likely, he had not known where he was going at all.

"You can't fight forever, Arthur," the voice came again. "Your moment of defiance has passed. Now, cease this madness and come to me! You know where I am. You can feel my pull on your mind. Come, Arthur. Come."

He did not want to go. She was not Maureen. She was blackening Maureen's name by this charade.

But . . . he did want to go, for that reason. He wanted to confront her.

And what then? Would he lose his last connection to his wife? Would she be gone too?

Why did he care? He should put all of this behind him. He would be better off without that fraud in his life. But . . . but still . . .

"You can't let me go, Arthur. You know that. You can never let me go again, no matter what I've done."

A horrible humming exploded in his ears. It drowned out everything—the screech of the tires, a flying bullet, Drumm's frustrated exclamation. . . . Everything except that voice. He could still hear that voice above it all.

An anguished scream tore from his lips. All sense of reasoning or logic was lost. His eyes wild, he lunged for the steering wheel. "Give me that!" he roared.

It was all the shocked Steve could do to hold onto it. "What are you doing?" he demanded. "Stop it! Get back in your seat!"

But Tragg would not give up. He snatched the wheel, his knuckles whitening as he also gripped it for dear life. When Steve tried to turn to the right, Tragg wrenched it to the left. The fight for control swerved the car down the street.

"We're going to hit that tree branch in the road!" Steve screamed. "What's the matter with you?" He tried to jerk the car away, but he was not fast enough. It hit the branch dead-on and turned onto its side.

xxxx

Paul groaned, reaching a fumbling hand up to the cut over his right eye. Blood was trickling down his face, half-obscuring his vision as he fought to force his eyes open.

What happened?

He was lying on the sidewalk, partially under an awning. Next to him on the ground was the piece of tree that had clocked him when it fell. His phone was also out, flashing something on the screen over and over. He squinted, unable to see it.

The sound of the crash in the road was more than enough to jar him back to consciousness. A car had collided with a tree and tipped onto its side. Before he could even rise, a figure emerged from the side facing up. It staggered briefly but then righted itself, tearing down the street. Something about it was familiar.

"Hey!" Paul cried, sitting up on the sidewalk. "You! Stop!" Clutching his head, he stumbled to his feet and ran into the road. The other man was already scrambling around a corner. There was no mistaking who it was.

"I can't believe it," Paul said to himself. It was Lieutenant Arthur Tragg.

The weak voice calling for help aborted any plans Paul had of giving chase. He spun around, staring at the car in alarm. He had had no idea that someone was still inside! He jogged over before the adrenaline rush could fade. "Who's here?" he called.

"Steve Drumm," was the rasping reply. "My seatbelt's stuck and I can't get out. Please help me."

Paul's mouth fell open. "Steve?" he cried. He went to the roof of the car and reached over, pulling open the passenger door. Steve turned to look at him, his eyes bleary and his forehead bleeding. He had probably struck his head against the driver's side window when the car had tipped over.

Paul hurried to get out his pocketknife and slice the seatbelt. The thing was holding his friend prisoner now, but before that it had very likely saved his life. "Do you know me, Steve?" he asked as he leaned in.

"You're Paul Drake," Steve acknowledged. "I've seen your picture in the paper."

Paul sighed to himself. "Okay, you're free," he said, cutting through the second strap. "Can you get out?" He closed the knife and stuffed it back in his pocket.

Steve fumbled, reaching up a hand to the backrest and trying to pull himself over to the open passenger door. Paul took hold of his wrist to help. His own wound was starting to make him dizzy. He clenched his teeth as he fought to keep it at bay. "Come on," he muttered. "Just a little bit longer."

Steve was losing his balance. Panicked, he shot his other hand up, clutching at Paul. It was only a miracle that Paul did not tumble into the car too. Instead he pulled with all of his strength. At last Steve gained enough momentum to push himself out the rest of the way.

The two men collapsed backwards on the grassy island in the middle of the street. "Oh brother," Paul gasped. He turned to look at Steve as the dizziness crashed around him in full force. "Would you mind telling me what happened? Why was Lieutenant Tragg in the car with you? No, make that why did he just abandon you and skip out?"

"I don't know. The man's lost his mind!" Steve slumped into the grass, closing his eyes against the pounding pain in his head. "He found me and was babbling about a voice in his head. Then these men showed up wanting to kill me and take him with them. We ran from them. We were in the car when he suddenly got violent. He grabbed the wheel and got us into that wreck. Then he just climbed out and ran. I was too dazed at first to really process it."

A cold chill ran up Paul's spine. "He really must have lost his mind," he exclaimed. Was it Vivalene's work? Paul was so bewildered he did not even know any more.

"Communication seems to be down around the city," Steve mumbled. "The radio wouldn't work. My phone was dead too."

Paul groaned. "Then mine was probably saying 'No Signal,'" he realized. "I won't be able to check in with anyone!"

"What were you doing here anyway?" Steve wondered.

"I was trying to find a guy named Vann," Paul said. "Only he doesn't call himself that here and I don't know what name he's using. All I really know is that his home's a museum."

"I know a couple of homes like that," Steve said. "If you need to check with someone we could find a landline phone and see if it works. And I could double-check the addresses."

"Are you sure?" Paul frowned. "I think I should get you to the hospital. You could have a concussion or whiplash. Or heck, both."

Steve opened his eyes, looking over at his rescuer. "You look like you've seen better days yourself, Mr. Drake."

Paul sighed. "I guess you're right. Okay, here's a new plan. Let's just go to the hospital. Some friends of ours have been there. Maybe some of them still are and we can figure out where to go from there."

"Alright," Steve consented. ". . . But . . . what do you mean 'friends of ours'?"

Paul pushed himself into a sitting position. "It's a long story," he said. "I'll tell you about it on the way to my car."

Steve sat up too, raising an eyebrow. "You're going to drive?" he said, doubtful.

"There might not be a cab around for blocks," Paul said. "My car's just over there." He pointed across the street.

Steve followed his gaze. "I hope that passenger of yours won't be hard to evict," he said.

"Huh?" Paul looked more closely. A heavy tree branch had penetrated the canvas roof and was sitting in the driver's seat. "Oh no!"

Steve pulled himself to his feet. "Well," he said, "we might as well get started."

Paul gave an occupied nod. "That 'passenger' has definitely got to go," he vowed.

xxxx

Mignon tightly clasped and unclasped her hands. She was still at the hospital, still watching over Larry. The earthquakes and aftershocks were all but turning her sanity upsidedown. Some of the patients were growing distressed as well. It was a stronger quake than the little tremors that often beset the city. This one was powerful enough to do damage. And outside, the mysterious purplish-pink lightning flashed from the top of the bubble.

"This is not natural," she said quietly. "It's as I feared."

Larry stirred, forcing his eyes open. "Mother?" he mumbled. "What's going on?"

Mignon jerked to attention. "Larry!" She stood, leaning over the bed. "Thank God. The doctors felt you would be alright, but I couldn't be at peace until you woke up."

Larry looked agitated. "Mother, where's Mr. Burger?"

Mignon's eyes flickered with surprise. "I don't know," she said. "He was here most of the night, but he left when Lieutenant Tragg went missing."

Larry sank back into the pillows. "The men who beat me up," he rasped. "They said they were doing it because you were helping him. And they said Mr. Burger would get worse than that, but that they wouldn't be the ones doing it. I don't know what they meant."

The words stabbed Mignon with sorrow. "I'm afraid I know," she said. "They haven't been hurting him physically; no one has. But his heart has taken many harsh blows." She straightened, turning away. "I've inflicted some of them."

Larry stared at her. "That's ridiculous!" he protested. "You know how he hurt you. You haven't done anything wrong by rejecting him."

Mignon glanced out the window. "The more this day goes on, the more I'm certain that he has been right," she said. "And that means that my memories are all false." She turned back to Larry. "It means he didn't hurt me."

Larry gaped. "Mother, you can't really believe that," he said. "I remember too. Everyone does, except Mr. Burger and that private detective. And they must be either insane or lying."

"No," Mignon said. "There's too much that makes sense with their words." She sighed. "I believed Mr. Burger from the first day he came to me with this story. And yet I could not let go of what I thought I remembered."

". . . And you can now?" Larry asked.

"It will still take a great deal of courage and faith," Mignon said. "But I think I know now why I never received an answer to my prayers." She nodded quietly to herself. "I already knew the answer. I knew what I needed to do."

Quickly changing the subject she said, "But Larry, what about those men? Did you know them?"

Larry averted his gaze. "One of them," he said. He looked back up again. "But I never thought he'd do something like that!"

Mignon stiffened. "What did you think he'd do?" she asked. "How do you know him?"

Larry shook his head helplessly. "He approached me a few weeks ago and asked if I really wanted to keep working for Mr. Burger," he said. "I thought he was soliciting a bribe or a position in some law firm. He told me Mr. Burger wasn't fit to be the district attorney and that . . ." He stared at the wall. "That I was the perfect choice to take over."

Mignon stared in alarm. "Larry, you haven't done anything illegal!" she gasped.

He looked up with a jerk. "No, Mother, I promise," he said. "I told the guy 'Nothing doing.' I didn't hear from him again until a few days ago, after Mr. Burger started spreading these crazy stories around. He said that I shouldn't need any more proof that Mr. Burger had worn out his welcome and that Mr. Burger was off his rocker." He sighed. "Well, I couldn't disagree with that. But I still said I wouldn't get mixed up with the guy's plans, whatever they were. If Mr. Burger was going to be kicked out of office, I didn't want any part of it. And then I didn't see the guy until last night, when he showed up to have me pummeled. He didn't beat me up; he just stood and watched. He left before you came down."

"Do you know his name?" Mignon demanded.

Larry nodded. "It's Greenbrier."