Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [48]
“How was the victim?” Max asked.
“He was confused and panicky. Weeping and sweating. Actually . . .” She bit her lip. “Biko said the man had wet his pants.”
“Whoa,” Jeff said. “Messy.”
“Who was he?” I asked. Not Darius Phelps at any rate. Until meeting me today, Biko hadn’t known that Darius was up and about. So to speak.
The victim also probably wasn’t a zombie, I suddenly realized. If, like Darius, zombies didn’t bleed, then chances were they also didn’t sweat, weep, or urinate.
Puma replied, “Biko didn’t recognize him, and the man wasn’t coherent. He just babbled hysterically about demon possession, dark rituals, and the walking dead.”
“Jesus,” said Jeff. “Heavy.”
“What did Biko do?” I asked.
“You know what boys are like.” Puma shook her head in exasperation. “Instead of staying with the victim, Biko went chasing after the creatures—which I guess we all agree are baka?”
Max and I nodded. Jeff shifted his weight and looked at the voodoo dolls displayed near the cash register.
“But your brother didn’t catch the baka, did he?” said Max.
“No. And when he came back to the spot where he’d left the victim . . .” She spread her hands. “The man was gone.”
“Then the victim wasn’t wounded in the attack?” Max asked.
Puma shook her head again. “Just scared and disheveled, according to Biko.”
“Well, having seen those creatures myself,” I said, “I can understand why the man ran away.” And even though Biko was armed with a rapier, I still had to give him a lot of credit for going after the baka.
Max was stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Hmm. Exactly which night did this happen, Puma?”
She thought back. “Monday.”
“Was the victim African-American?” When she nodded, Max asked Jeff, “And is your colleague Frank, the missing substitute teacher, also African-American?”
“Huh? Yeah.” Jeff shrugged. “So what? This is Harlem, Max. Most people here are Af. . . .” His eyes widened. “Okay, wait a minute. You’re not thinking—”
“Oh, I get it.” Following Max’s train of thought, I asked Jeff, “When did Frank start playing hooky?”
“The day before yesterday. Tuesday.” Jeff added, “But that’s got nothing to do with—”
“So Frank stopped coming to work at the foundation the day after Biko found a terrified man being attacked by mysterious creatures in the same neighborhood.” I said. “Doesn’t the coincidence even make you curious, Jeff?”
“No, of course not! Because Biko’s story is crazy—no offense intended, Puma—and because there are a lot of reasons Frank might be missing. His absence does not have to be because he was attacked by demon spawn!”
“Missing?” I repeated. “What do you mean, missing? ”
“Calm down. I don’t mean ‘missing.’ I mean . . . out of touch. All right?”
“Who’s Frank?” Puma asked in confusion.
Jeff said, “Frank Johnson. My sub.”
“Pardon?”
I explained to her who Frank Johnson was. Then I said to Jeff, “Define ‘out of touch.’ ”
He sighed. “Okay. Fine. Catherine called Frank on Tuesday, after he didn’t show up to teach class. She tried him again yesterday, after he missed class a second time. No answer, no reply. Both times. That’s why she called me today. After I heard from her, I called him, too, and left him a message.” Jeff shook his head. “He hasn’t called me back, either.”
“Given his reaction to the attack that night,” Max said, “the victim may have been terrified into a hysterical retreat.”
“Frank’s dodging calls because he has screwed up, that’s all,” said Jeff.
“Does he screw up a lot?” I asked.
“Well, I didn’t think so, obviously, or I wouldn’t have asked him to sub for me,” Jeff said snappishly. “But I guess I was wrong.”
“If Frank Johnson is indeed the victim Biko rescued,” Max said, “then he may have information vital to our investigation.”
“What investigation?” Jeff said.
“We must speak with him,” said Max.
“Lots of luck. I just told you he’s not returning calls.”
“Then we should go to his home,” Max said.
“I’m not sure where he lives,” Jeff said. “Somewhere in Hamilton Heights, I think.”
“Hey, that’s in the Thirtieth Precinct!” I said brightly.