The Stone Scry Page 3

  “Scientific research. Biotech like vaccine manufacturing, I get it.” Tom shook his weighted head and looked up to the ceiling. Hues changed with dusk’s light piercing the large, living room windowpane. Swinging trees and water droplets, pulled from the glass towards his flooded yard, altered shadows across the ceiling like a Victorian magic lantern.

  “We do not grow money on trees,” the commander said. “Emergency funds are not wool shorn and collected from fat, lazy barnyard sheep. Collected from cash-strapped taxpayers, and at least a third of them have fallen off the grid.”

  Lieutenant Commander Andy Ochoa then aimed his narrow eyes at Tom and asked, “Will you serve, sir?”

  Tom guzzled down half the fresh beer, wincing, and gripped Lisa’s hand tight. He searched her body language for some inkling to which decision was correct. She nodded, jarring a tear loose along her pronounced cheek.

  “Yes, I accept your offer. Now, let me warn you, Ochoa,” Tom said, wagging his finger, “my contract bills at a government rate. You are going to feel some pain come budget closeout and you will have to figure a way to raise those dollar-coated sheep.”

  “Thing is”—the commander’s shoulders reeled in—“you’re worth the price.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I will sign off on any funding you request.”

  “You did not answer my question.”

  “The facilities administrator will answer it.”

  Tom heard sniffling from the kitchen and went limp between Ochoa’s teeth.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Tom Mason squirmed trying to find the perfect posture. Cramped in an airline cabin, he fidgeted, elbowed Lou by accident, and contorted his legs in ways pushing the limits of cartilage tensile strength. He begrudgingly accepted there was no way to change the vicissitude of a blood clot.

  “Thanks for flying out with me, Lou. These goddammed seats were made for Lilliputians with scoliosis.”

  “You said you needed me; how could I refuse?”

  Lou Frasier giggled while fighting him for the broom handle-thick armrest. The long, one-connection flight converted two grown men of science into hyperactive fifth-graders.

  “You didn’t rent a Prius, did you, Doc?”

  “No, why would I order one of those? Can barely fit my own luggage in one, and there are three of us.”

  Lou gave up the armrest space and scratched his head. “If we’re going to Los Angeles, aren’t we supposed to rent a Prius or something?”

  Lou’s father, a Lee County native, described Californians as fruits and nuts. In truth, it was the opposite. Tom’s psychiatrist monitored him over the years, suspecting Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. They tried medication to suppress night terrors, but his hypertension meds produced excess potassium, rendering PTSD meds worthless. All Lisa Mason could do was caress his back and soothe his shakes when he awoke drenched in sweat.

  “They have a valet waiting for us. Hey, Arnold Schwarzenegger drove a damn Humvee around downtown. Not all Angelinos are granola crunching tree-huggers.”

  Lisa skootched in and whispered, “Did Tom tell you about growing up there?”

  “No, why? Was he in a gang?” Lou chortled. Realizing no one else laughed at the joke, he asked sheepishly, “Were you?”

  She grinned and replied, “You guys should try the hotel pool. Tom can show off his tats.”

  Lou pinched at Tom’s foldover. “What, like tattoos? Are you decked out like a yakuza or Hell’s Angels biker under that sweater?”

  “Stop!” Tom spanked his hand back. Not in a mean way, Lou and Tom were beyond colleagues—they were friends.

  Before his sixteenth birthday, Tom had been shanked, chased, beaten, and run over. He did not blame his assaulters, sometimes instigating them through his own stubbornness. They hurled insults from wedo to racist over their wall of ignorance. Racist hurt the worst. His inner circle ranged from Mexican immigrants to Pacific Islanders: two friends were an Asian metal head and a Guatemalan jock. Most denizens of Los Angeles were good people; it was a percentage game. If thirty percent of them veered towards being sadistic assholes, the city had enough pain to go around.

  “Never mind,” Tom said, “Let me just say I saw things many have yet to see.”

  Lou tittered, “I saw a seesaw by the seashore once in San Diego…”

  “How many drinks did you have?” Tom wanted Lou tipsy, not trashed.

  “One more than I should have.”

  Lisa rolled her eyes to Tom and pecked his lips. “We’re going to fly over Mount Wilson soon.”

  Lou exclaimed, “Ah, jeez!”

  She pressed Tom against the seat and asked Lou, “What’s the matter?”

  “Doc, I didn’t ask who we’re meeting at the conference!”

  “Well, Lou, this happened pretty fast.”

  “And?”

  “Uh, well, you are not going to enjoy it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Truth is Lou, uh”—Tom rubbed his forearm hard, pulling his fingers inward—“uh, well…”

  “Doc!”

  “We are meeting the Stone family.”

  The Carolina tan drained from Lou’s face. “The Stone family? Are you out of—”

  Lisa raised a finger to her lips, emitting a shoosh.

  Competing against the roaring jet engine, Lou cupped his mouth and aimed his words at Tom. “Doc, the Stones? Are you out of your mind? Those people are crazy! Why the hell are we meeting them? You’re in the navy—Christ, you’re a fricking officer. Screw those weirdos.”

  The sting behind Tom’s eyes moistened them. Maybe the dry air bothered them. More likely, it was the emotion of betrayal sawing around his eyeballs keeping Lou in the dark.

  Tom and Lisa moved to North Carolina intent on raising a child. They stopped after Sam, every parent finds their limit. As Sam grew, his interests diverged from Tom’s. Lou filled the gap between the torch of knowledge and the eternal flame. His opinion of a bad school in Raleigh described paradise compared to the average, shithole learning institution in Los Angeles. Every complaint Lou lobbed reassured Tom moving to North Carolina was the right thing to do, and he felt terrible for not being forthright with him.

  “I’m still a civilian,” Tom said, “for now, anyway.”

  Lou wedged into his seat, arms crossed.

  “Lou, their hands are in everything.” Tom repeated, “Everything.”

  “They’re bankrolling Fort Dick,” he gruffed. “I knew it.”

  “Yes, they own the Dorothea Dix land, and we are in charge of the circus.”

  The descent steepened following a cockpit announcement. Tom blocked his ears, attempting to mute the volume-ridden pilot, and rubbed them feeling the pressure change. “Have any gum, Lisa?”

  “Oh,” asked Lou tapping his palms together, “can I have some?” Sammy’s aura emanated through Lou’s eyes.

  Lisa reached into her purse and handed a nurturing piece of gum to Lou. “He’s not committed to anything, right honey?”

  “You can back out at any time, Lou. Anytime until the meeting. Once we meet the Stones, your ass belongs to them.”

  Lou poked Tom’s shoulder. “Does yours?”

  “Well, it does, my friend.” Tom’s eye twitched. Maybe you should fly back and skip the whole thing. I can cover your return ticket to Raleigh.”

  Lou drew in his lower lip, raised his shoulders, and puffed out his chest. “No, I should definitely be doing this. Fuck them.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Things had changed for the worse since Tom left Los Angeles. Years of severe drought drove life’s finger deeper into the city’s wounds. He noticed a sizable police presence upon exiting the gate. Officers armed to the chin, wrapped in layers of body armor. For a good reason. Right before his eyes while traversing the terminal, he witnessed a purse snatching, mugging, and a woman threatening to set off a bomb. Each assailant given a special sacking by the city’s finest and dragged off for intimate follow-up beatings.

  Ho
lding hands, Lisa and Tom weaved through the edgy crowd towards baggage pickup.

  “Look!” Lisa pointed to a short, portly woman wearing a tuxedo and holding up one name written on glossy white paper: MASON.

  “Last chance, Lou,” Tom said as he approached the driver.

  “Let’s do this.”

  They followed the chauffeur out the congested terminal and stood before a stretched SUV limousine. Tom shrugged his shoulders at the gaudy vehicle. Lisa and Lou entered without a word. As they zipped off to the freeway, no one touched stiffer drinks stored in the unscratched limo bar.

  Lisa and Tom clenched hands together while she stared out tinted windows wearing a vacant expression. Typically, they played the game people watching, and arteries running through the city of angels carried a delicious visual buffet. Lisa instead commented on a striking orange and purple sunset. Tom perused a horizon of concrete and decay. Familiar spray-painted symbols and worn-down fences crawled by in afternoon traffic.

  “Look!” Lou said, pointing out the window. Plumes of smoke floated upward from pockets of rioting in Watts.

  “Water is too precious to waste on shanty towns and lived-in junkyards,” Tom said in a dry voice. “Burned down ash heaps mean less infrastructure to maintain.”

  Lou drew to his cell phone while dipping his head to the bass of DeadMau5 bumping out the limo speakers, per an earlier request. Swiping and tapping away to Complications, Tom could tell Lou feigned obliviousness of the strange sights and sounds outside.

  Outsiders reacted one of two ways to the experience that was Los Angeles. They either gawked at every detail of the concrete jungle or pushed the overwhelming sensation from their mind. Never once did Lou flinch at the booming bass of decked-out cruisers or Spanish curses flung at the behemoth carrying them. He kept his head down and alternated between water and soda, no doubt sucking down all he could to sober up. Spinning feelings risked decisions to dangerous choices, and Tom expected nothing else from Stone.

  Arnold Stone scried on the computer monitor five years ago that Lou and Tom would become the most famous scientists in the world. The vision blossomed. Tom Mason had become a household name, and yellow journalists touted Lou Frasier sexiest bachelor of the year. They were big-time, the real deal, the heroes of humanity.

  While their mosquitos fought back disease outbreaks, Stone pulled puppet strings and whispered blackmail plots in philanthropists’ ears. Unimaginable tactics applied by Stone skyrocketed the NC State scientists into the stratosphere of stardom.

  “Sweetie?” Lisa asked Tom as though a thousand eyes watched her, “Why did Mr. Stone fly you out here?”

  “Not sure, figured he wanted me to meet his family.” Tom rubbed the nape of his neck and said, “Heck, Lisa, I did not give it much thought until now.” When engrossed in project work, a 9.0 magnitude earthquake could not shake Dr. Tom Mason out of the lab.

  Six months ago, a Washington Post story broke describing in gossiping detail Arnold Stone’s supporting role in their fame. Lou would never forgive Arnold Stone for his underhanded treachery. Tom wrote off the debacle as human nature. The ordeal embarrassed them both. Stone shrove before Congress and swore transparency.

  The public glossed over the Post article; Lou and Tom had become too powerful to taint. While their strain of mosquitos rid the country of blood voiding bowels, chunk spewing coughs, and syrupy spinal taps, they were untouchable. However, the more press they received, the further Mr. Stone tilted his star scientists to his whims. His opportunities. Reading the Post article solidified Tom’s gut feeling that he and Lou were two pawns in Stone’s game of life.

  Shadows of palm trees raced by like bars closing in a prison cell. Roads changed from six lanes to four, to two while the sun dipped down to hide under the horizon. Streetlamps illuminated the winding road that passed between cliffs and the ocean.

  Drawing them forward, inward.

  Lou peeked up from his phone and said, “Doc, I’m sure this visit’s not a vacation. Whenever we see Arnold, he wants something.”

  “I feel like Captain Willard being swallowed by the Mekong Delta”—Tom equated to one of his favorite movies, Apocalypse Now—“weaving up the Malibu highway chauffeured to the snake’s venomous head.” The image flared sharp stinging pains in Tom’s temples.

  The limo pulled up a steep hill and stopped. Tom followed Lou’s eyes like a concerned father as Lou tracked the chauffeur’s sand-scraping footsteps.

  She opened the door, and all remained seated. Glued down by the unknown.

  Lou said, “Nothing good is waiting for us in that house.”

  “Last chance,” said Tom.

  “Wasn’t the airport my last chance?”

  “Last chance for what?” A young girl said, poking her head in. “You’re the scientists Papa hired to run the Navy’s research lab. My father’s name is Mr. Jonathon Stone.”

  The last nail sealing Tom’s realization Arnold Stone owned him struck, sounding out the name “Lieutenant Commander Andy Ochoa.” Driven in by the Stone family hammer. Arnold Stone funded the development of Fort Dix, placed his son Jonathon as the administrator of the complex, and requested Andy Ochoa pick up Tom to begin work on more elusive projects behind closed doors. That old bastard.

  “Everyone is fond of Grandpapa. He wants to make the world a better place. Is everything ok?” Her steel-blue eyes flashed at Lou, and her dark brunette curls brushed his shoulder. “We have dinner ready. Can I help you with your things?”

  “No, we’re good,” Lou replied, pocketing his phone sans grace.

  “My name is Emelia. Emelia Stone. What’s yours?”

  Things could be worse, Tom thought. Sammy is safe, we live beyond horrific coastal flooding, and my research has saved thousands of lives. Despair swelled in Tom, watching Lou sign the devil’s contract.

  “Lou Frasier,” he said, holding out his hand and shaking the young girl’s as if meeting at a family reunion. “Good to meet you, Emelia.”

  “Your hand is trembling,” she commented. “Are you nervous?”

  “Not at all,” he cleared his throat and said, “Arnold and I go way back.”

  “People are often nervous about visiting my grandfather, so Papa sent this nice limo.”

  She swayed and asked Lisa, “Are you nervous?”

  “We are a little, Emelia, but we’re thankful your father provided this vehicle.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name is Dr. Lisa Mason, and this is my husband, Dr. Thomas Mason.”

  As Emelia reached forward to shake his wife’s hand, Tom noticed a dark line running up the center of her forearm.

  “Your heart’s beating rapidly, Dr. Mason,” Emelia stated flatly to Lisa. “Come inside and have something to eat. You’ll feel better.”

  Lisa followed Emelia out, holding her hand.

  The girl continued spouting out questions as if mentally writing a research paper. “What did you write your thesis on? I want to become a doctor someday, too. Was it hard? I’m interested in social behavior, but my family is entrenched in drug development. They want me to get my advanced degree in biochemistry or toxicology. Do you like biochemistry? I’ll bet you used to be a PI. I would love to operate a lab someday. Did you ever write any journal articles?”

  Lisa cleared her throat and asked, “How old are you, Emelia?”

  “I’m fourteen. Right now, I’m majoring in biology at UCLA. Papa wants me to get my graduate degree at UCLA, but Grandpapa says I must go to Stanford. I don’t like San Francisco, do you?”

  “My…” Lisa gulped and replied, “Our son is fifteen. You’re a lot more, um, focused than he is.”

  Tom ignored the banter listening to the crunching pebbles of the walkway under his footsteps. Scents of sage, lavender, and rosemary bordering the path reached into his head and massaged his lobe.

  Emelia led them up elongated, ornate steps of an elegant stairway. Gold starting newels with beveled endcaps welcomed them to fat columns standin
g at attention under a portico. Guarding statues carved into the walls buttressed inviting double doors. In the porchlight, Tom spotted birds-of-paradise and stoic date palms lining the driveway. Opening the over-polished oak door, Emelia beckoned the others to follow.

  Lou whispered to Tom, “I think you need to hold my hand, Doc.”

  “This place is extravagant. Emelia seems nice. Maybe we are over-reacting,” Tom said squinting under the pang of his aching head.

  Keeping Lisa’s hand, Emelia said to Tom, “Dr. Mason, I’ll get some ibuprofen for your headache.”

  Her observation caught Tom by surprise, he was too far away for her to hear the whispered conversation. Reaching the porch landing, the view through the double door pushed aside his concerns making room for childlike fascination. Standing at the threshold, he reposted first sight inside the Stone mansion into memory. The foyer fit scenes of a thousand silver screen movies: broad, plush, cascading stairways; polished, elegant columns; massive mirrors lit by imported sconces; and at its center rested a Romanesque fountain.

  The precocious girl asked Tom, “What do you drink?”

  He stumbled over his marvel. “Well, um, drink?”

  Under the haunches of an enormous archway stood the stout, gleaming figure of Arnold Stone rubbing his hands together.

  “He’ll have a double shot of Dixie vodka. Finest vodka between Carolina and Russia.” Stone then swayed a beckoning nod to them and said, “Everyone, welcome to my home!”

  “Yes, Grandpapa,” she said, unlatched Lisa and scurried off through a smaller backway door hidden in the staircase paneling.

  “Come, everyone”—he lifted a puffy, spotted hand—“you need to eat something.”

  Part 2: The Divers

  Hierarchy of the Divers: Elder — Dealer — Master Builder — Master Hunter

  Production: Dealer — Realtor (assistant dealer) — Brain (scientist or farmer) — Worm (teacher or nurse) — Ant (farmhand, construction, and general labor)

  The Contractors: Master Builder — Mechanic (senior engineer) — Rat Catcher (engineer, coined from building a better mousetrap) — Chef