Mark of the Demon
Page 17

“He’s not there during the day,” I heard from behind me before I could ring the bell.
I turned to see a woman standing at the edge of a driveway on the opposite side of the street. She was easily well into her eighties, dressed in bright yellow velour sweatpants and jacket, with her silver hair pulled back into a bun so tight that I decided the woman probably had twice as many wrinkles as were immediately evident.
“He’s usually gone all day,” she said, glancing up and down the street before crossing, chin up and a fixed smile on her face. I could see the woman’s eyes flick busily over me, from my clothing to my badge and gun, all the way down to my shoes.
I could peg this one. The ultimate in nosy neighbor. As a detective, I usually loved this sort. As a person, this was why I had a house twenty minutes away from civilization.
I gave the woman a bright smile. “I appreciate the information. I’m Detective Kara Gillian with the PD. Do you know where he works?”
The woman wrinkled her nose. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Gillian. I’m Nora Dailey. And Mr. Cerise doesn’t work.”
I didn’t miss that Ms. Dailey had deliberately left the “Detective” off my address, but it wasn’t worth making a fuss over right now. “He doesn’t work? So where is he during the day?”
“Oh, he hangs out with all sorts of unsavory characters down at that church, that outreach center,” she said primly.
That was a new one. I didn’t usually hear about unsavory characters and churches in the same breath. Well, except from my aunt. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand. What does he do at the center?”
Ms. Dailey rolled her eyes. “Oh, heavens, he sits at that place and doodles in a notebook, sometimes talking and joking with those drug addicts.” She made a disgusted noise. “If he’s not careful, he’s going to end up just like them!”
Yeah, wouldn’t want anyone to actually reach out to those people. I knew the center she was talking about. A couple of years ago, several of the local churches had cooperated to create a community outreach center that I had to grudgingly admit was proving to be pretty effective. Though I was about as far from a churchgoer as one could be, even I had occasionally steered people who were having trouble coping toward the place. It had also become the “in” thing to be involved with for local politicians, and just about anyone of any importance was on the board of directors in some capacity.
But now I was intrigued about Mr. Cerise. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I said, being deliberately obtuse. “He does drugs with them?”
Her eyes widened. “Well, it’s possible! It’s not just that outreach center either. He wanders in bad sections of town, hangs out in the park, gives money to bums …” She gave a not-so-delicate shudder. “Plus, he dresses like a hippie, and with that long hair of his …” She gave a sniff. “I’ve called his landlady several times about him, but all she says is that he pays his rent on time and doesn’t cause any problems.” She made a face. “I don’t know why she won’t listen to me.”
“Did she ever live here?” I had a suspicion as to why the landlady didn’t pay much heed to Ms. Dailey.
The woman nodded. “Oh, yes, for several years. Then she got married and moved to the other end of the parish. She put the place up for rent, and he moved in near the beginning of this year.”
No wonder she doesn’t listen to you. She’s dealt with you in person, I thought, controlling my urge to snicker.
“Is Mr. Cerise in trouble?” Ms. Dailey continued, her expression eager and hopeful, very obviously wanting it to be true so she could have proof that all her suspicions were correct.
“Oh, no!” I said with wide-eyed disingenuousness. “I’m just here to talk to him about his volunteer work with crippled children,” I lied smoothly.
Her smile turned rigid and forced. Ms. Dailey’s disappointment was obviously crushing, but she put on a brave face. “Ah. I see. How nice.”
“Is Mr. Cerise a bad neighbor?”
Ms. Dailey wagged her head. “Oh, he just worries me to death.” Now she was changing her act to Concerned Neighbor. “He comes in and out at such strange hours.” Then she leaned close and lowered her voice. “But at least he isn’t black,” she said, giving me a knowing nod. “I was worried when Dana told me she was renting the place out, and I even asked her to make sure she didn’t rent it to any of the wrong sort.”
I somehow managed to keep my face immobile. “Well, don’t you worry about anything, ma’am, and I appreciate the information about where to find him.”
Ms. Dailey gave a sniff, then spun and marched back across to her house, bright yellow velour swishing with each step.
I watched her go, feeling ever so slightly soiled, then returned to my car. If I were that landlady, I think I’d have been tempted to rent to the “wrong” person just to annoy Ms. Nora Dailey.
Most of the churches that had sponsored the outreach center were in the middle of town, a lovely area with clean streets and flowering trees and a pleasant view of the lake. The outreach center was nowhere near there, since the nice people who diligently attended worship didn’t care to have the tourist section of town marred by such a thing and didn’t want to have to actually see any of the people who used the center. As a result, the outreach center was located several miles away, on the outskirts of town, well away from the lake and any possible contact with tourists.
Trash lingered a bit longer in the streets here, the sidewalk was cracked, and the few trees were scraggly, pathetic things that did little to improve the looks of the area. The stores were a far cry from the dainty antiques shops and upscale clothing stores that could be found in midtown. Instead, there were scatterings of secondhand-clothing stores, pawnshops, and the occasional bail bondsman. A diner of questionable cleanliness did a fairly steady business across the street from the center.
The building that housed the outreach center was unremarkable—a two-story white structure made of cinder blocks and aluminum. The sign above the double glass doors in the front was peeling and leaning at a dubious angle, but the glass was spotless, and there was no trash out front.
I pushed in through the doors and walked down a short hallway, entering what looked like a common room. I saw the eyes of everyone inside flick to me and then quickly away as soon as they marked me as a cop. There were about half a dozen people in the room, watching TV, flipping through magazines, or quietly playing board games. There was an unoccupied pool table in the corner and an unused computer on a scarred metal desk against the wall. Faded inspirational posters were scattered on the walls, some with “artistic” additions and commentary that had likely been done by the people who were meant to be inspired. I scanned the room, vaguely recognizing a couple of faces from encounters on the street, then realized with chagrin that I had no idea what Greg Cerise even looked like. Well, I knew that he dressed like a hippie and had long hair. Unfortunately, that didn’t narrow it down too much in this crowd.
“Detective Gillian?”
I turned at the sound of my name, then smiled as I saw the preacher from last week in the park approaching. This time he was dressed in attire that made it far easier for me to believe he was a clergyman—dark pants, oxford-style shirt, modest-size crucifix on a chain around his neck. “Reverend Thomas,” I said with a smile. “It’s good to see you again. I didn’t think I’d run into you over here.”
He smiled, weathered face crinkling around his eyes. “My church is heavily involved in this center. I like to come by here and help out when I’m not too busy.” His expression turned more serious. “So what brings you down here? Do you have any more information about Mark?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m still working on that. Actually, right now I’m looking for a man named Greg Cerise. I was told he sometimes comes down here. Do you know him?”
A flicker of what might have been surprise crossed Reverend Thomas’s face, so quickly that I didn’t have time to fully identify it. “Yes,” he said, with the barest of hesitations. “Yes, he’s here. He’s not in any sort of trouble, is he?”
What was it with thinking this guy was in trouble? “No, I just wanted to talk to him about some of his artwork.”
Relief suffused his features. “Oh, whew.” He gave an apologetic grin. “Sorry. I like Greg. I really do, and I think he’s incredibly talented. I just worry about him sometimes.”
“Why is that?”
He spread his hands. “I can’t really put my finger on it. He’s a nice guy, but he seems very lonely. He’s not a ‘loner,’ though,” he said, making quote marks with his fingers. “He gets along with everyone, and I think he’s really made a difference to some of these folk. He’s a terrific artist, and he draws a lot of the people here, but …” He smiled. “It’s hard to explain, but it’s as if he draws the reality of what they could be. It’s for this comic book he puts out. But when the people see the drawings he does of them, it … it makes a difference.”
Now I was intrigued. “How so?”
“I think it makes them see what they have the potential to be and motivates them to achieve it.”
“That’s fascinating. Is he here?”
Reverend Thomas nodded. “He’s upstairs, in the office all the way at the end of the hall on the left. Just go through the meeting hall and you’ll see the stairs in front of you. Greg tends to spend the mornings out here with the people or down at the park and then works up in the office in the afternoons. He rents it from us.” He gave a small laugh. “We’ve told him he could have the space for free, but he insists on paying for it. He says he can’t get as much work done at home, because there’s always something else that needs to be done, and this way he doesn’t see the laundry and the dirty dishes.” He gestured in the direction of the meeting hall. “You can go on up. He doesn’t mind interruptions.”
“Thanks, Reverend. And I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything out about Mark.”
He gave me a warm smile and took my hand, squeezing it gently. “I appreciate everything you’re doing. Let me know if you need anything from me.”
I returned the squeeze, then turned and headed through the doors to the meeting hall and up the stairs.
Even though the carpet was stained and worn, the place was kept as clean as it was possible to keep an old building. There were no inspirational posters upstairs. The walls and doors were bare up here, except for one. It wasn’t hard to figure out which office was Greg’s; it was obviously the one with pencil sketches and fragments of scenes pasted haphazardly all over it. I took a moment to peruse the drawings, narrowing my eyes in satisfaction as I saw rough sketches that closely resembled several different levels of demon.
I tapped politely at the door.
No answer. I leaned my head toward the door. I thought I could hear someone in there moving around. I knocked again, a little harder.
Still nothing. I grimaced. I didn’t want to make a big scene and pound on the door, but I also didn’t want to walk away empty-handed. I sighed and gave a normal police knock.
The door was yanked open so suddenly that I took a defensive step back, then recovered and took stock of the man in the doorway. Above-average height, wearing worn jeans and a dark T-shirt, with light-blue eyes and a slender, unmuscled build. He was older than I’d expected, with gray scattered throughout his shoulder-length light-brown hair and lines adding texture to his face. Probably about my aunt’s age, I decided, and with an open almost-smile on his face that made him seem incredibly likable even before I’d spoken word one with him. A smell of cigarette smoke clung to him, and I could see a scattering of ash on the front of his shirt.
The almost-smile split into a true smile and he laughed. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was listening to music on my iPod and was caught up in a little project, and then I heard the knocking on the door so I leaped up, thinking it was some kind of emergency, and then instead it’s a gorgeous woman, and I’m sitting here wondering what kind of lottery I won!” His grin was beyond infectious, and I found myself grinning as well.
“No lottery,” I replied. “Sorry. Actually, I’m with the police.” I handed him my business card. “I’m Detective Kara Gillian. I was wondering if you might have a few minutes to talk to me?”
The grin vanished, replaced by a wide-eyed-little-boy expression of awe. “Oh, wow, police! Has something happened?”
Was he really this innocent or was he one hell of an actor? “No. To be honest, this isn’t really a police matter. I’m hoping you can help me out with something.” This would get weird and uncomfortable if he’d never actually met Rhyzkahl. What little rep I had would go south pretty damn quick. “You’re Greg Cerise, the artist for the Shattered Realm comic, right?”
The smile returned, shy pride, but now with a touch of wariness. “Yeah, that’s my best work. What do you need to know?”
I shifted my notebook in my hand and gave a mild grimace. “This may take a moment to explain. Do you mind if I come in so we can talk?”
“Oh! Sure. I’m so sorry. Come on in!” He stepped back and gestured me in. He was like a puppy, all eager to please. A thick odor of nicotine surrounded me as I stepped into the office, which was so small I thought I could probably touch both walls at the same time by extending my arms. There was a small desk with a portable drawing table set upon it, with a work in progress of what looked like a mermaid fleeing a sea creature. An ashtray overflowing with butts perched precariously on the arm of a chair, and the walls had the faint yellowish stain of nicotine. Every wall was covered with more sketches and drawings, a few in color but the majority in either pencil or pen and ink. There was also nothing arcane in the room, I noted. No traces or resonance, which would be there if anything related to the arcane had ever been done in that room.