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Ron and Pallas made a visible effort to pull themselves out of their reverie.
“Right,The Lost Night Files,” Ron said, waxing enthusiastic. “I never miss an episode. That was good work you did in Saltwood, by the way, Ms.Llewellyn. I couldn’t believe it when they accused you and your friends of being frauds. Said you were just out for publicity. That sick sociopath would still be murdering people if he hadn’t been dumb enough to try to kill you.”
“Please call me Pallas,” Pallas said. “I have to tell you, it was a little awkward there for a while in Saltwood.”
“I can imagine.” Ron snorted in disgust. “In the end they still didn’t figure out what really happened. Probably just as well they assumed the monster had a stroke. The authorities wouldn’t have believed the truth.”
Ambrose had been in the process of examining the names and dates on the Carnelian vault. Ron’s observation made him turn around.
“What truth?” he asked, very curious now.
Ron winked. “Everyone who pays attention toThe Lost Night Filesknows the killer didn’t just keel over on account of bad blood pressure or a clot. It’s no secret Pallas put him out like a light. But most people wouldn’t believe it, even if you told ’em. They’d want proof and more proof and even then they’d say it was all a trick. How do you prove something like that?”
“I see,” Ambrose said. “You believe in the paranormal, then?”
Ron shrugged. “Be a fool not to. Expect you believe in it, too, or you wouldn’t be here in Carnelian with Pallas trying to figure out what is going on at the Institute.”
Ambrose looked at Pallas. She was focused on Ron.
“You know we’re looking into the disappearance of Emery Geddings?” she said.
“It’s no secret,” Ron said. “Doubt if you’ll ever find him, though. Pretty sure he was dealing there at the end. That kind of employment usually results in a short life span.”
“You think he’s dead?” Ambrose asked.
“Yeah.” Ron shook his head. “The cops are convinced Geddings’s competition took him out, but I don’t think that’s who killed him. More likely the doctor who’s running the Institute murdered him when he discovered that Geddings was stealing drugs. They weren’t just ordinary sleep medications, you see. The doctor had them made up special. Geddings didn’t talk much about it but we went back a long way. Both of us were born and raised here. Both went into the Army. Afterward we used to get together for a beer a couple of times a week. He let a few things drop.”
“What, exactly, did Geddings say about the medications he was stealing?” Pallas asked.
“He said the stuff was some kind of hallucinogen that Fenner had made up in a special kind of pharmacy. It was supposed to cure insomnia. Geddings said as far as he could tell the shit didn’t help anyone sleep better but the college kids loved the stuff. He also told me that wasn’t where the real action was at the Institute.”
“What do you mean?” Pallas asked.
“Geddings said there was something else going on there, something that might be worth a lot of money. He was trying to figureout what Fenner was up to. That was a couple of months ago. But Geddings didn’t come around much after that. When I texted him to see if he wanted to go out for pizza and a beer he said he was busy. The last thing Geddings told me was that he was going to have to leave town.”
“Did he say why?” Ambrose asked.
“He wouldn’t talk about it,” Ron said. “I knew something had happened at the Institute but when I asked him about it he said it was better if I didn’t know anything. Then, a couple of weeks back, he vanished. At first I figured he took off because he found out the cops were getting ready to arrest him for drug dealing. But that didn’t feel right.”
“This morning, Ambrose and I went out to Fenner’s place,” Pallas said. “We wanted to ask him a few more questions. He was dead.”
“No shit?” Ron said, clearly startled. “Huh. Someone kill him?”
“On the surface, it looked like an overdose,” Ambrose said. “The cops are at the scene now. We’ll see what they come up with.”
Ron whistled in amazement. “Did not see that coming. There really is something weird going on at the Institute, isn’t there?”
“We think so,” Pallas said.
“Do you mind answering a few more questions?” Ambrose said.
Ron squinted at him. “Someone said you were a writer.”
“Yep.”
“What name do you write under?”
“My own,” Ambrose said.
