The Stone Scry Read online

  “Well, ahem,” he adjusted his collar and answered, “I must say, Tom, your tact has caught me off-guard.”

  Condescension volleyed in traditional Stone sarcasm.

  Not amused, Tom continued, “We have worked together long enough to know tact is useless. Besides, I have been in this chair before. First, it was your father and me. We sat in flimsy contoured rollers in my Raleigh office. Then we sat in a puffy booth in RTP. Blue Moon Café, I believe.” He ticked off his fingers: “The arrogant commander in my rocking chair, your family’s goddamn dining room chair in Malibu. Most fun of all, the examination room chair where I sat trapped by your bitch sister, Eva.”

  Emelia’s jaw hung on the invective. No one retorted Stone family members. To do so courted unprecedented excoriation from the family. Tom, apparently, was untouchable.

  She asked, “Trapped? How did Aunt Eva trap you?”

  Jonathon smiled and sat. “You weren’t there, my dear. You had gone off to bed.”

  “It doesn’t matter”—Tom fluttered his hand—“you never change. You will give a little if I lose more. The difference between you and your father? Arnold Stone did not need a green pill to manipulate people.”

  Tom knew this itched under Jonathon’s skin. Jonathon Stone lived under his father’s shadow. After he died, Jonathon continued living under the shadow of Arnold Stone’s tombstone.

  Jonathon shot back, saying, “Yes, how true, Tom. Well put, and us being of similar physicality means he was the one Stone who could manipulate you unaided by our little green gift. And what a good job he did.”

  “What is in those God damned mosquitos?”

  “Your creation, of course.”

  “Don’t lie to me! I found bioluminescent fungi lacing a cattail head. Pucciniales, a rust. Basidiomycota is bioluminescent, and this is not it. They are fluorescing in daylight, which means they are expressing some genes in overdrive. Christ, why am I explaining this to you, this is wasting my time.”

  “You are more familiar with things dispersed in the Sandhills than me, Tom. I have no clue what is out there. I work here, behind this desk, remember?”

  Tom tried to catch himself. The chrysalis sealed. He felt the imago forming.

  “Look, Stone, I shot an alligator—it had a giraffe’s neck and legs as long as a Great Dane. Strains of wisteria south of the Danvers tribe eat flesh. Flesh!”

  Jonathon leaned back, head in folded hands. “Flesh, huh?”

  “They have these spines”—Tom widened his fingers—“five to eight centimeters long that inject an animal with wisterin. The creature passes out, falling on more spines. Dead or alive, it lays on this vine matt for days consumed by secreted digesting enzymes.”

  “Ok, Tom. We both know I don’t do surreptitious dealings; those are my sister’s specialty.”

  Tom hated the truth in his argument. Jonathon had a decent, basic level of integrity. Backdoor politics and shadow deals were not activities he cared for. Commander Andy Ochoa was Jonathon’s second in command for a reason—they both preferred a public knife fight to rumormongering and blackmail. Arnold Stone passed his honed skills of deception along to Eva.

  Tom pressed his thumb deep into his lined forearm, rubbing away anger.

  “You’re so predictable,” Jonathon said and turned to watch the rain pour outside. A severe tone returned in his voice: “I’m in an awkward position, Tom. I must put my child, my beloved daughter, in harm’s way.”

  “She has been in harm’s way, working with James’ stomper unit.”

  “No. This time, it’s different.”

  Emelia clapped her hands and leaned forward. “Ok Papa, what’s the plan?”

  Tom had been brainstorming how to get Emelia Stone out to Wilmington before sitting down and exchanging pleasantries with Commander Andy Ochoa. The opportunity fell right into his lap, and he hated it. Nothing was free in the Wash except water and death. Emelia handed over to him so quickly, there had to be a catch.

  “Just because he has a plan, Mel, does not mean we have to follow it,” Tom snapped.

  “Very true,” Jonathon turned to face them, saying, “but you will because this involves your son.”

  “My son is quite popular these days.” Tom’s eye twitched. “You have my attention.”

  “Something is about to happen to the Divers tribe. I must confess, I don’t give two shits about your little Sam, but I do care for our largest supplier of fresh water.”

  His eyes directed on Tom’s eyelid pulsing. “Good, I have your attention. Now listen carefully, this information does not leave this room. The jackers are, indeed, funded by the Canadian Mafia. Some fat thug named Luc LeBlanc. I’ve tried to find out who’s clearing his money so I can freeze his accounts. Whoever it is, they avoid every asset at our disposal. If I can’t lock him down, I must focus on his operations. His beady eyes are set on Wilmington. The Divers. Your son.

  “Sam will need help to defeat LeBlanc’s jackers. A tribe over two hundred strong settled a camp south of Hope Mills six months ago. Call themselves the Tar Heels, obviously still clinging onto the cuteness of pre-Wash memories.”

  “Obviously,” Tom deadpanned.

  “Fortunately, we’re aligned. We’ve used the Tar Heels camp as an alternate route to Mount Olive, avoiding disruption to the water trade. In exchange, they patrol south of Fayetteville. We’ve armed them to their earlobes. Gave them rifles, explosives…everything they need to cause mass destruction. Unfortunately, jackers have cut off the Danvers from handling our primary shipping route. If the jackers overtake the Tar Heels, Wilmington is off.

  “Tom, I’ve made a deal.”

  Tom rolled his eyes and sighed. “You’re going to recruit the Tar Heels? You think a tribe will leave their land to serve the government?”

  Emelia pleaded, “Tom, it’s a solid plan. Be patient. Papa can appear to be mean, but he acts for the betterment of humanity.”

  “Yeah, well”—Tom fretted over his clout eating away—“we all have our flaws, right?”

  “Yes, we do,” she said, her eyes appealing to his better nature. “In your heart, you know he’s a humanist.”

  “Go on, Jonathon,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

  “The plan is simply this. Contact the Tar Heels and make south to the Divers. With their help, and all your skills”—Jonathon motioned across them—“with you two leading them, they won’t fail.”

  “You offer Emelia’s help freely. Why?”

  “Admiral Melbourne has ordered Mel be involved in operations. Her knowledge of the local tribes is invaluable.” Jonathon massaged his temples, displaying lament for the idea. “Had he not stepped in, she would be on a plane back to California. However, he believes she exponentially increases your odds of success.”

  “We may have help from others.”

  “Oh? Like who?”

  “Never mind.”

  Jonathon studied him. “Who, the demon?”

  Tom remained silent, glowering at him. His mind could not be read, nor could he be ordered to comply.

  Rapping the desk, Jonathon conceded: “Now look who’s harboring secrets!”

  “Jack Harr,” Tom stated.

  Emelia asked, “Grandpapa’s Jack?”

  “Yes, Jack Harr.”

  “He’s going to help you?”

  Tom asked Jonathon, “What did Jack Harr do before working with your family?”

  “He was a detective for Cary PD. He and some demon made a deal, so the story goes. Jack left North Carolina to work for us. He believed the demon was not a source of evil, rather, part of the way of things. Make sense?”

  Tom rested chin in hand, rubbing his upper lip. “I think we’re moving into a trap.”

  “You’ll manage. Why in the world would you ask about Jack?”

  “Someone dropped his name a couple days ago. I knew nothing about him.”

  “Jack Harr is an old man now. In fact, you’ve met him before. He was with us at my father’s house in Malibu the night
you joined us for dinner.”

  Tom fidgeted and said, “I remember. I’ve heard enough.”

  “So, you will take the mission?”

  “I’ll ruminate on it.”

  “Look, Tom, I’m stretched too thin to provide more. We need our military strength along the Virginia border. People are being massacred on both sides. The West Coast has fallen into chaos. The central plains will be next. Everyone in the southwest is leaving the United States for Mexico. Listen to what I’m saying: our country is dying. Losing the water trade cinches this trash bag enveloping it. You have my daughter, is that not enough? If you and Lou don’t help her, we’ll lose Fayetteville, and you’ll lose your son.”

  “Fine,” Tom mumbled. “Get us to Hope Mills, and we will keep your precious water trade open.”

  Chapter 6

  The helicopter bobbed over timberlines through torrential rain blaring Dirty Vibe by Diplo and Skrillex in its cabin. Tom Mason found himself tapping a foot on the wet cabin floor to the rich bass and fast EDM tempo, joined by the crew nodding their heads to the beat.

  Swamp stompers used helicopters to get in and out fast drawing little attention. “Birds” were great for borderland missions, but jobs south of Fayetteville required a rendezvous at the HP109 hub in Fayetteville. The hub served one purpose: housing, fueling, and maintaining a fleet of HP109 Mud Hoppers. These marshland chariots ferried units on missions ranging from supply deliveries to wellness checks, and from seek-and-destroy runs to reconnaissance excursions.

  Mud Hoppers extended the stomper’s lethality. A light, carbon casing around its propeller muffled blower acoustics. Its opening, surrounded by flaps concentrating exhaust, provided thrust up to sixty miles per hour. A plated bladder made it impenetrable to most objects except antipersonnel bullets. Layered over the deck, a fiberglass thermo-treated coat negated the risk of fire. Should someone stupid enough try stealing one, the engine’s dead switch left them mired an open target. A locator beacon affixed to the bladder led any generic guided missile to its location.

  Tom surveyed the helicopter cabin and performed a discrete check on the crew.

  Emelia Stone stared out her window in deep thought, unaffected by the bird’s intense bouncing. She could not have seen much action. No visible scars, she wore makeup and styled her hair. Yet her stomper patrols excised at least two insurgent tribes near the South Carolina border. Her mind control abilities, gifted by the green pill, had grown significantly more powerful.

  Lou Frasier, per the usual, played on his cell phone. A favorite distractor when nerves wound tight. Tom regretted allowing him to join his lab at Fort Dix and despised himself for agreeing to let Lou accompany him when they began fieldwork. However, Tom firmly believed that if not for Lou, he would be dead. From their first operation onward, missions placed Tom either between teeth, under bullets or over perilous terrain. Lou’s help granted him the chance to step back through the gates of Fort Dix, and into Lisa Mason’s arms.

  Opposite Tom sat Sergeant James Laramie. James shook his hand when they gathered at the bird in Raleigh, and no one else’s. He avoided eye contact with everyone except Tom. They were friends.

  After their entanglement with Cuddles, James lauded Tom’s stubborn ferocity to face death. Eating carnitas tacos in the lab cafeteria together, he confessed his belief Tom would always choose self-sacrifice when lives were at stake. He also believed no one else in admin would do the same.

  “How you doing, James?”

  James winked at Tom and returned his gaze to the fields below.

  Tom knew James had his fill of torn limbs and brains blown into forest litter. Human fighting human and human facing beast—both were not unusual in these lands. Squadmates murdered by an invisible force opened a level of uncertainty the less initiated were not prepared to face. Reading his frenzied memories, Tom knew James wanted out. He was ready to retire.

  Tom also caught incoherent memories of recent conversations between James and Commander Andy Ochoa, unable to decipher them. His innate trait enhanced by the green pill was different from the Stone family’s potent ability to manipulate minds. Tom did not try to dig deep past recent incidents. James needed the privacy, no need to dip an auger into his past.

  The bird circled Fayetteville’s depot before landing. Tanks patrolled the roads and scores of National Guardsmen staffed hundreds of outposts throughout the complex. Mines laced the perimeter. In surrounding fields, thousands of corpses lie scattered across thick microstegium. What locals called creeping grass. The outer ring of carnage served prodding carnivores: alligators and canines. Turkey vultures, crows, and hawks picked at the rest, undisturbed by the helicopter.

  Collateral damage made indentations in taller giant cane clusters, but most of the dead were jackers. Unlike tribal folk, they did not wear layers of clothing and shoddy makeshift armor. Most hardly wore more than a tee-shirt and pants, often torn and poorly stitched back together. Many shaved their heads and lived in squalor: lice-ridden and pox filled pits. Their home was nothing more than a temporary dugout shoveled before executing their next savage mission. Their pets were ticks and fleas. Nothing else wanted to be near them.

  Tom felt a slicing blade through his stomach scanning scores of the dead. James sought to reassure his friend, saying, “Tried to punch their way in, looking for weaknesses. Won’t find any. Stompers fortified the city’s northern border. Got this depot covered three-sixty.”

  Tom sighed. “There are so many, and getting closer to Raleigh.”

  James spied through pocket binoculars and added, “Also, disorganized. Throwing themselves at our defenses, they might be getting desperate.”

  Tom cracked a smile and leaned back, viewing rivet patterns on the cabin ceiling. “At least the scavengers look normal.”

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Dinnerware clinked as servants hurried to lay down the first course. The heavy silverware reflected Tom’s face like little mirrors. Small gourmet dishes dotted the long oak table. He rubbed the embossed, soft table cover, its red and purple material feeling similar to crushed velvet between his fingers. Pieces of art ran wall-high, and polished sconces lined the dining room. Each wall framed by carved molding depicted events in the Stone family history. On his left sat Lou Frasier. Eva Stone and her brother, Jonathon Stone, sat facing him.

  Arnold Stone skootched into his king’s chair at the head of the table, looking as fat and giddy as ever. “I’m glad you two could make it to my home! Tom? Lou? What do you think?”

  A greying man dressed in a woven suit brought items in each hand. In the right, a silver plate with a small, green pill rolling around its center. In the other, a gold-rimmed goblet. “For your head, friend. Double shot of Grey Goose. We also have two types of vodkas made in North Carolina that are quite smooth, very delicate tastes and aromas.”

  “So I heard.” Tom plucked the pill and chased it down with the vodka. The drink was delicate and smooth; subtle blackberry and citrus hints, void of bitter contaminants or dilution. He looked up at the man’s broad shoulders and thick neck. “This is great, thank you, and thanks for the ibuprofen.”

  The man gave Arnold a concerned look.

  “Yes,” Arnold said, “you’re welcome, Tom. Anything for my star scientists! Jack, you may go now.”

  “But it wasn’t—”

  “Jack! You are excused.” Arnold rested his chin on a meaty fist.

  Jack Harr left with shoulders drooped as Eva Stone’s glare nipped at his heels.

  Arnold looked back to Tom and Lou and asked wearing a Santa Claus face, “Well?”

  “Oh, it’s amazing,” Lou replied. “It’s, I don’t know, fancy? I’m sorry, but your house is bringing out the Sanford in me.”

  Arnold’s chubby hand slapped the table as he laughed from his diaphragm. “Tom?”

  “I have only seen these houses in movies. Have to admit, I am a bit shocked by its marvel.”

  Arnold Stone leaned back in delight. “One of the many reasons I wanted y
ou two here.”

  “What,” Tom asked, “to shock us?”

  “No! To get accustomed to this. This is how people”—he directed a thumb to his chest—“people like us, we live in homes like this.”

  “Um, not to appear ungrateful Arnold,” said Tom wiggling in his chair, “but what type of people are we?”

  “Saviors, my boy! Benefactors of humanity. We innovate, create, and build to make people’s lives better.”

  “Well, I am appreciative of your perception and your support. The Washington Post story was not as flattering.”

  “Yes, those nosey worms. Don’t believe anything they write. We have Congress and the public on our side. Nothing else matters.”

  “So, Eva…” Tom switched his attention across the table. “How did you save mankind?”

  “Oh, I tend to the family business. Making sure our mission stays in focus, rather than pursuing childish ventures,” she said, returning a sly countenance.

  Don’t believe her.

  Tom jumped in his chair. Young Emelia Stone sat on his right. Her brunette locks rolled over her shoulders, and her fourteen-year-old eyes flashed, My aunt never tells the truth.

  He asked Lou, “Didn’t Emelia go to bed?”

  “She did. Lisa and Jack are tucking her in.”

  “Yes,” Jonathon quipped, “three Dutch children in a wooden shoe.” His face appeared comforting, but the tone made Tom shiver.

  Papa doesn’t like you, Emelia’s mind fed the words into Tom’s head. He thinks you’re going to take me away.

  Tom eased back into his seat and asked, Why?

  Ask him.

  “So, uh, Jonathon…” He verbally tiptoed a blooming desert careful not to crush its delicate flowers. “Your daughter tells me you’ll be managing the new Navy facility in Raleigh.”

  “My, what a gabby child,” Eva jabbed.

  Jonathon confirmed, “I am to oversee all operations there.”

  “I would think you would prefer staying out here, you know”—Tom danced around his words—“in sunny California.” He kept a perky tone sweetening the vinegar.