And then there was the “key.”
That night five years ago, as Izzie had lain bleeding on the metal floor of the lighthouse lantern room, Fuller had talked about the “old daykeeper” giving him a key that finally allowed him to understand, and that allowed him to walk through the fire and see the shadows for what they were. It wasn’t until she read Aguilar’s journals that Izzie understood that the “key” Fuller had referred to was the substance the Maya had called ilbal. Samantha Aguilar had assumed that it referred to some kind of crystal or mirror, but Izzie was certain that it was much more than that.
Izzie and Patrick had learned from some of Fuller’s surviving colleagues at Ross University that toward the end of his time there, when his behavior became increasingly erratic, that he had begun to take some sort of psychotropic drug. Among the evidence that the CSI unit had removed from Fuller’s apartment five years before had been a few small glass vials filled with a crystallized powder. The analysis of the contents conducted by the Recondito Police Department’s Office of Forensic Science had been fairly inconclusive, but their findings had suggested that it was likely derived from some unknown plant species, with a chemical structure similar to hallucinogens like DMT.
Izzie was convinced that the powder in the vials, the drug that Nicholas Fuller had been taking during the last months of his life, was the substance that the elder Aguilar referred to as ilbal. Fuller believed that it was the key that allowed him to perceive directly the presence of invaders from a higher dimensional space.
Was that simply a delusion brought on by Fuller’s repeated hallucinogenic experiences, colored by the myths and legends that the old daykeeper had taught him? Or was it a verifiable fact?
Izzie couldn’t help but wonder what she would experience if she took the ilbal herself. What would she see?
She picked up the journal on the top of the stack, flipped the legal pad to where she’d left off, and started to read.
CHAPTER SIX
Patrick felt like he had been working on his after-action report for ages. But when he finally typed the last entry, and clicked the link to file it, he glanced at the corner of the screen and saw that it had only taken a little more than an hour. It was the middle of the afternoon, with a few hours to go until sunset. So perhaps not ages, Patrick thought, but longer than he would have liked.
As he pushed back from the desk, Patrick felt his stomach grumbling, and realized that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He was sure that Izzie would have given him a hard time for thinking about food when there were so many other pressing concerns at hand, but he told himself that he functioned better on a full stomach. He’d be sacrificing productivity and effectiveness if he didn’t take a break to get something to eat.
He was rationalizing, he knew, but he was going to do it anyway.
Logging out of his computer, Patrick tucked his phone in his pocket and clipped his holstered pistol on his belt, then shrugged into his quilted jacket and headed for the elevator.
He didn’t want to waste more time than was necessary, rationalizations aside. So rather than going all the way down to the garage and driving his car to one of his usual lunch spots, he pressed the elevator button for the ground floor. There was a decent taco truck that was usually parked a couple of blocks up Albion, and if it wasn’t open, there was a Korean barbeque across the street that would do in a pinch.
When the elevator doors opened, he was assaulted by a din of shouting voices. From the looks of it, a fight had broken out between a couple of prisoners in the intake area, and a group of uniformed officers were attempting to break things up. But other prisoners were shouting, urging the two brawlers to continue, whether because they had a stake in the argument or just for their own entertainment; it wasn’t clear.
Patrick walked over to the officer manning the intake desk. “Everything okay down here, Anderson?”
Sergeant Anderson turned in his direction, an expression of brief annoyance on her face that faded when she saw it was him. “Oh, hey, Tevake.” She turned back to look at the processing area where the commotion was going on. “Yeah, I’m giving them another thirty seconds to knock it off and then the Tasers come out.” She shook her head. “Couple of hopped-up crackheads like them, though, might have to zap them a few times until they take the hint.”
“Well, good luck with that,” Patrick said, and continued walking toward the door.
After badging out through the security gate, he pushed open the door and stepped outside, and wondered what effect a Taser would have on one of the Ridden. Or just electricity in general? If the loa or whatever they were calling it was controlling the body through the central nervous system, would an electrical shock interfere with that? If a bullet couldn’t take down one of the Ridden, would electrocution do the job?
It was worth considering, though Patrick wasn’t sure that he wanted to get close enough to one of the Ridden to find out one way or the other.
As he walked along the sidewalk heading west on Albion, Patrick couldn’t help but feel as though there were eyes on him, watching his every move. He’d spent enough time working undercover to know better than to simply turn and look, so he paused in front of a storefront, pretending to window shop, but in reality, using the reflection in the glass window to check to see if there was anyone following him. Then at an intersection he paused, as if undecided
