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Detective Beth Fahey opened the next "solved" case file and wondered if reading through these reports was really necessary or if this was busywork her colleagues had found for the new, and only, female detective on the Penwych police force's special investigations team. She'd been told these files were examples of what the team investigated when called in by any of the police in the six towns located on the outer bank of the Fate River.
This case from the police in the town of Barker, for example.
A man who went out hunting with some friends had shot and killed a migratory goose (no mention in the file about whether shooting geese was legal at that time of year). Instead of taking the goose home, he gave it to his friends, because his wife was severely allergic to feathers.
The next day, the wife heard strange sounds coming from their backyard and discovered their in-ground pool was packed with geese. In fact, their entire yard was packed with geese. When several geese rushed toward her in a threatening manner, the wife went inside, screamed for her husband, and managed to call emergency services before she began wheezing and struggling to breathe, either from the number of feathered assailants in her yard or from a panic attack.
Coming out of the family room to see what his wife was fussing about, the man heard her wheezing, saw the geese, and fetched his rifle instead of having the sense to stay inside and let the authorities handle rounding up the geese.
He stepped outside, raised his rifle, and was immediately attacked by several geese. The unanticipated attack threw off his aim, and instead of shooting any of the geese, he managed to shoot the fuel tank on his neighbor's fancy new grill. The grill exploded, and the resulting fire not only damaged the neighbor's house but cooked a couple of unlucky geese.
The special team was called in because the wife claimed she'd had her tarot cards read the week before by the acquaintance of a friend, and it had been predicted that a disaster would occur if her husband tried to shoot creatures that were unable to defend themselves. (There was some debate about whether geese qualified as "unable to defend themselves.")
An inquiry was made. After talking to the individuals who ran Destiny Park, it was concluded that, while the series of events was strange, the Isle of Wyrd was not involved, and neither the man nor his wife had made a bargain with the Arcana.
Beth shook her head. She didn't discount tarot readings or any other means of tapping into a person's intuition, but why did the towns around the Fate River need a special team to investigate things like geese in someone's yard?
Then again, this had been one of the few "amusing" cases she'd reviewed. The others . . .
How was anyone supposed to deal with what she'd seen in some of those crime scene photos?
Maybe that was the point of this review-to find out if she could deal with the gruesome cases the team was required to investigate. Last fall, there had been four detectives on the team, along with two officers and Captain Forrester. Something had happened. No one would-or could-say exactly what that was, but one of those detectives transferred out of the 13th precinct to avoid any contact with the team, and another detective was on extended medical leave and wasn't likely to return.
She had been hired to fill one of those positions. She'd been given a week to find a place to live in Penwych and get herself settled before reporting to work. She'd spent last week reading old reports and looking at crime scene photos. And yet when she studied some of those photos, she could almost see dark and seductive shapes in the background, could almost hear words whispered in a language that might be understood in dreams.
Looking beyond the deaths, she could almost see the terrible married to the sublime and hear the warning: they chose this.
Not thoughts she would acknowledge to the psychologist who had the task of assessing police officers' mental health. She was sure there was already a notation in her file about her interest in macabre imagery and dark fantasy artwork, courtesy of Bonnie Wilson, the woman she had lived with while growing up-a woman who preferred religious pictures that included self-flagellation and went beyond what Beth considered gruesome and gory.
Tom Castelletti, the team's senior detective, walked into the area of the 13th precinct that was reserved for the special team, glanced at Captain Forrester's closed office door, and placed a file on Beth's desk.
"This one is hot," he said. "Read it. I'll be back with Kuhn in a few minutes, and we'll do the coin toss to see who has to cross the river."
He left, glancing again at the captain's closed door.
The coin toss had been mentioned once before. Beth thought it was an odd way to decide which detective on the team had to interview . . . What, exactly? A confidential informant? A local politician? Another cop?
According to Castelletti, all the detectives on the team participated. The two most senior officers began the coin toss. It was elimination in reverse, where winning the toss meant you were excused.
Shaking her head, Beth opened the file and focused her attention on this current case. She read the information, then read it again. It had to be a joke, because what the autopsy said wasn't possible. Couldn't be possible, and yet . . .
The frisson that ran through her told her that what she was reading was true.
Tom Castelletti and Detective Ian Kuhn returned.
Castelletti gave her a long look, then gestured to indicate she should join them around the big evidence table. "You've read the file?"
"I don't understand it, but I've read it," Beth replied.
"One of us is going to have to cross the river and make inquiries." Castelletti studied her. "You remember what we said about the coin toss?"
She nodded.
Castelletti lost the coin toss to Kuhn, and Beth lost to Castelletti, who looked relieved and uneasy.
He's spooked, she thought as a door opened.
Captain Charles Forrester stepped out of his office and looked at his officers, his eyes almost, but not quite, skipping over her. "Who lost the coin toss?"
"Detective Fahey, Captain," Castelletti said. "She'll need to get her skates on if she's going to catch the next ferry and not get stuck doing an overnight."
Forrester stared at the men so hard that they looked away. Looked ashamed. "Neither of you was given this kind of assignment when you first joined the team."
"She wanted to participate," Kuhn protested.
She hadn't been told she had a choice. In many ways, Castelletti and Kuhn acted like she was a placeholder, like they didn't expect her to be around in a couple of months. "I can handle this, Captain."
Forrester turned his stare on her. "Can you? With me, Detective." He stepped over to her desk, scooped up the folder she had been studying, and went into his office. When she walked in after him, he said, "Close the door. Then tell me what this says."
When he held out the folder, she took it. "Gerry Palowski. Twenty-five-year-old male, unemployed. Is-was-living with a current girlfriend but had a five-year-old daughter with a former girlfriend. According to statements made by both girlfriends when they were stable enough to be interviewed, Palowski wanted to go to a party with his ex and 'have some fun'-and he wanted the current girlfriend to babysit his daughter. She refused to stay home and babysit, and then his ex refused to go to the party, and that deprived Palowski of his fun. The next day, Palowski purchased a gun-"
"Transacted for the use of a gun," Forrester corrected.
"-and went over to his ex's apartment, where he shot his ex and their daughter before going back to his apartment to shoot his current girlfriend for spoiling party night. No fatalities. All three people are in the hospital in serious condition but are expected to pull through."
A miracle by anyone's definition. At close range, Palowski should not have missed a kill shot once, let alone three times, but the bullets did something impossibly crazy in terms of entry and angles that left three people wounded instead of dead.
"And Palowski?" Forrester asked.
Beth hesitated. In the crime scene photo that was taken where he was found, Palowski still looked like a hard-living twenty-five-year-old man sitting in the park, sleeping off a bender or some drugs. But the autopsy indicated that all of Palowski's internal organs belonged to a man in his nineties and that he died of natural causes-if aging seventy years in a matter of hours could be considered natural.
"You'll note that the report speculates that the same ghost gun used for the shootings has been used in other unsolved cases over the past eighty years or more."
"Ghost gun? An illegal firearm?"
"More than that. The gun comes from the Isle of Wyrd. It can't be traced or found beyond that point-and it always returns to the island after being used."
"So you know where it came from."
Forrester nodded. "I even know who, most likely, sold the use of it to Palowski. Having lost the coin toss, you are going to Wyrd to find out the terms of use and confirm that the gun returned to the island."
"I'm going undercover to try to purchase one of these ghost guns?"
"No." Forrester's voice turned sharp. "There is no such thing as undercover in Wyrd. Pretending to be someone you're not would be a death sentence for people like us."
"Like us, sir?"
"Normal people." Forrester hesitated. "People who aren't part of the threads that make up the supernatural on that island. There are other places like it around the world, but in this part of our country, the uncanny is concentrated on Wyrd and then ripples through all the towns on this side of the river." He stopped and seemed to focus on his breathing before he continued. "Have you visited the Isle of Wyrd, Detective Fahey?"
"No, sir." There hadn't been time for sightseeing between her hurried move to Penwych and reporting to work.
"Then let me explain what you're about to face."
Forrester took out his wallet, removed two fifty-dollar bills, and held them out to Beth. "Take it," he said when she didn't move. "I'll put in a chit for it."
"I can . . ."
"The ferry makes a trip across the Fate River every hour on the hour between sunup and sundown. When you get to the pier where the ferry takes on passengers, you'll see a booth where you'll exchange the money for the coins that are used on the island. Ask for six gold coins and eight silver coins. The gold coins are worth ten dollars; the silver are five dollars. The ferry usually costs a silver coin, but if the Ferryman asks for gold, don't argue."
A coin for the Ferryman? Was Forrester kidding? "They have flexible fees?"
"For everything."
"Why couldn't the patrol boat take me across the river?"
"Even a patrol boat doesn't dock anywhere on that island without an invitation," Forrester replied quietly. Then he continued in a normal voice, "You'll probably be met by Lucas Frost. He rules Destiny Park and sometimes acts as a liaison. Tell him we have a shooting with a strange outcome and think a ghost gun was involved." Forrester gave her a hard look. "Whatever he tells you, accept without question."
"Why?"
She had the impression that her captain was trying to decide how much to say.
"The Arcana control Destiny Park and the pavilion. Their influence extends over the whole island, but the pavilion is where they make transactions with people like us."
"Meaning non-supernaturals."
"Yes." Forrester let out a careful breath. "By our standards, they are amoral, but they are honest and honorable in their own way. Any bargain they make with you, they will keep. It just might not be in the way that you expect. And you had better keep any bargain you make with them, because if you fail, they can be unforgiving and brutal when extracting compensation." He paused. "The Arcana are very dangerous. Never forget that, Detective. When I say your fate lies in their hands, I am not exaggerating."
"Yes, sir."
He held out a hand. "It's forbidden to bring a weapon to Wyrd. The Arcana will overlook a pocketknife because they consider that a practical tool, but they won't overlook a gun, not even for a cop. I'll keep yours secured until you return."
Beth gave him her holster and weapon.
After locking them in a drawer in his desk, Forrester said, "Ask the questions you're allowed to ask about Palowski and the gun. If there is time, see a bit of the park while you're there to get a feel for the place. Then get yourself back here."
"If I miss the ferry, is there a place-"
"I don't care if you have answers or not, you will make damn sure that you don't miss the last ferry."
His anger was a heat that filled the space between them.
"Why is it so important?" she finally asked.
"Because things . . . change . . . on Wyrd after dark, and you don't want to be there when that happens."
Charles Forrester escorted Beth Fahey to the patrol car that would take her to the ferry’s pier. Then he returned to his office and closed the door before making the phone call.
"Frost." A voice that resonated with a power that made people hesitate to enter shadowy places.
"It's Charles Forrester." No response. There wouldn't be. The Arcana didn't waste time on small talk. "My new detective is on her way to the island to ask for your assistance in confirming some details on a case. She's green as grass and unfamiliar with Wyrd."
"You know how things are done here."
"I do. I'm asking for your understanding if she makes mistakes when dealing with you or your kin."
"When is she due to arrive?"
"She'll be on the next ferry."
"Soon, then."
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
Charles considered the question carefully. You never accused the Arcana of wrongdoing. They didn't care about such things when it concerned the mundane world. The Arcana in Destiny Park simply facilitated people who either tried to change their fate or wanted to fulfill their destiny. "A man from King's Hill has hired a private investigator to find his missing spouse. I have an appointment with the PI and should have more details later this afternoon. Apparently, the wife is mentally fragile, which is why the husband is particularly concerned about her disappearance-and why the PI is checking in with police stations all along the river."
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