paper and pressed it into my palm. “I’ll wait,” she said, and smiled. “But not forever.” With another flash of teeth, she turned and was swallowed by the human flood.
I folded the paper and stuffed it into my wallet.
Josh nudged me with an elbow. “Her number?”
I nodded.
“If you don’t call her,” he said, “you really are insane.”
I didn’t disagree.
We crunched across the gravel parking lot and he settled into the truck, pulling the seat belt across his chest and waist.
“Tell me about this game,” I said. “What are the rules?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. It’s not Monopoly. You can’t just read the rules off a box top.”
“Just hit the high points. Is this the game you guys used to play in?”
“We went a couple of times—me and Razor and the rest of us. Guy named Chuck runs it. He asked Razor not to come anymore.”
“How come?”
He shrugged. “Razor thought he was jealous, but I don’t know. This group is pretty straight. Maybe they just got weirded out.” He plucked at his seat belt. “Thing is, Razor didn’t even like the game that much. It just pissed him off that Chuck said he couldn’t play.”
I slowed for the speed trap in Lakewood, and Josh chatted about the game for the next few miles. I made the several convolutions Map-Quest assured me would take me to the community center. Then Josh leaned forward and pointed.
“That’s it.”
There was nothing remarkable about it. No gothic spires or make-believe cobwebs. It was a plain rectangular building with a small gravel parking lot, as ordinary as peanut butter.
There were already a dozen or so vehicles in the lot, many of which sported bumper stickers. I Believe in Whirled Peas , My Other Car Is a Horse , My Other Car Is a Broom , Cthulhu Saves .
In front of the building, half a dozen women in brightly colored parkas huddled beside the door, holding up signs that said, Beware the Appearance of Evil and This Game is the Devil’s Work . One said simply, Vampires Suck .
As Josh and I passed, I recognized a curl of dark hair and the strong, sorrowful features of Marta Savales. Alan Keating’s number one fan.
I stopped in front of her and said, “Mrs. Savales, isn’t it? Jared McKean. We met at Razor’s funeral.”
She blinked as if trying to place me, then gave a cautious nod and hugged herself for warmth. “Is this your son?”
“Nephew.”
“If you love that boy at all, put him back in your car and drive him home.”
“It’s just a game,” Josh said. “It can’t hurt anybody.”
“Is that what you think?” Her eyes glittered in the street light. “I wonder if your friend Razor would agree.”
Josh blanched. Before he could speak, I laid a hand on his shoulder and nudged him toward the door. Forget about it.
Inside, people whose costumes ranged from jeans to formal wear milled about or clustered around a cafeteria table draped in black and piled with cupcakes, chips, and soft drinks.
Two men in suits flanked the door. They pretended to scan us for weapons, using flashlights as ersatz metal detectors, and waved us inside. I pretended I didn’t have the Glock in a small-of-back holster under my sweater.
Josh and I tossed our jackets onto a table piled high with winter coats. Then Josh tugged me toward a stocky guy with shaggy ginger hair and a beard in need of a trim. He looked like a lumberjack.
Josh said, “Uncle Jared, this is Chuck Weaver. He runs the game.”
Chuck gave me a cockeyed grin and extended a hand. “Good to have you, man. Josh says you’re a virgin.”
“Hardly.”
“I mean it’s your first time to the role-playing world. Looking for a regular game?”
“Just checking it out for Josh’s mom and dad. And I’m investigating Sebastian Parker’s death.”
“That freak,” he said, nose wrinkling. “He wasn’t a player. He was a psycho.”
Josh opened his mouth and I gave his shoulder a firm squeeze.
“Care to elaborate?” I asked Chuck.
“No
I folded the paper and stuffed it into my wallet.
Josh nudged me with an elbow. “Her number?”
I nodded.
“If you don’t call her,” he said, “you really are insane.”
I didn’t disagree.
We crunched across the gravel parking lot and he settled into the truck, pulling the seat belt across his chest and waist.
“Tell me about this game,” I said. “What are the rules?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. It’s not Monopoly. You can’t just read the rules off a box top.”
“Just hit the high points. Is this the game you guys used to play in?”
“We went a couple of times—me and Razor and the rest of us. Guy named Chuck runs it. He asked Razor not to come anymore.”
“How come?”
He shrugged. “Razor thought he was jealous, but I don’t know. This group is pretty straight. Maybe they just got weirded out.” He plucked at his seat belt. “Thing is, Razor didn’t even like the game that much. It just pissed him off that Chuck said he couldn’t play.”
I slowed for the speed trap in Lakewood, and Josh chatted about the game for the next few miles. I made the several convolutions Map-Quest assured me would take me to the community center. Then Josh leaned forward and pointed.
“That’s it.”
There was nothing remarkable about it. No gothic spires or make-believe cobwebs. It was a plain rectangular building with a small gravel parking lot, as ordinary as peanut butter.
There were already a dozen or so vehicles in the lot, many of which sported bumper stickers. I Believe in Whirled Peas , My Other Car Is a Horse , My Other Car Is a Broom , Cthulhu Saves .
In front of the building, half a dozen women in brightly colored parkas huddled beside the door, holding up signs that said, Beware the Appearance of Evil and This Game is the Devil’s Work . One said simply, Vampires Suck .
As Josh and I passed, I recognized a curl of dark hair and the strong, sorrowful features of Marta Savales. Alan Keating’s number one fan.
I stopped in front of her and said, “Mrs. Savales, isn’t it? Jared McKean. We met at Razor’s funeral.”
She blinked as if trying to place me, then gave a cautious nod and hugged herself for warmth. “Is this your son?”
“Nephew.”
“If you love that boy at all, put him back in your car and drive him home.”
“It’s just a game,” Josh said. “It can’t hurt anybody.”
“Is that what you think?” Her eyes glittered in the street light. “I wonder if your friend Razor would agree.”
Josh blanched. Before he could speak, I laid a hand on his shoulder and nudged him toward the door. Forget about it.
Inside, people whose costumes ranged from jeans to formal wear milled about or clustered around a cafeteria table draped in black and piled with cupcakes, chips, and soft drinks.
Two men in suits flanked the door. They pretended to scan us for weapons, using flashlights as ersatz metal detectors, and waved us inside. I pretended I didn’t have the Glock in a small-of-back holster under my sweater.
Josh and I tossed our jackets onto a table piled high with winter coats. Then Josh tugged me toward a stocky guy with shaggy ginger hair and a beard in need of a trim. He looked like a lumberjack.
Josh said, “Uncle Jared, this is Chuck Weaver. He runs the game.”
Chuck gave me a cockeyed grin and extended a hand. “Good to have you, man. Josh says you’re a virgin.”
“Hardly.”
“I mean it’s your first time to the role-playing world. Looking for a regular game?”
“Just checking it out for Josh’s mom and dad. And I’m investigating Sebastian Parker’s death.”
“That freak,” he said, nose wrinkling. “He wasn’t a player. He was a psycho.”
Josh opened his mouth and I gave his shoulder a firm squeeze.
“Care to elaborate?” I asked Chuck.
“No
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