"The book." Phillip Castler's eyes tightened. "That God-damned book."
He puts his hand to his face to scratch his bearded chin. Then almost of their own accord, his fingers strayed up, and he rubbed his eyes like a man trying to escape a bad dream.
"Tell me," I prodded. "What's Mueller going to do with it? Where? And when?"
"You don't know how persuasive he was when he first showed up," Castler said, answering questions from somewhere else. "He was a perfect salesman. No, that sounds shallow. Hans was wholly sincere. He had so much energy for what he was telling us, you could feel it coming off him, like heat from a sunburn. You know, they talked about Hitler that way. To us, he's just a short stubby man spitting some other language in old black-and-white newsreels. But all the people who were in his presence said that you just couldn't not do exactly what you thought he wanted. Hans Mueller was like Hitler reincarnated. He probably knew it, too."
I knew Castler had a lot on his mind, a lot of cognitive dissonance to sort onto separate shelves to maintain his sanity. But Hans Mueller was out there somewhere, with murderous aims and unknown power, and I wanted to shut him down before something irrevocable happened so that I could get back to a life that involved none of these people. And I wanted to derail Castler before he started heiling der Fuhrer right here on a park bench.
"Phillip," I said in the slow, weighted tones that I use when Beth is too distracted to remember who the parent is. "Mueller's plans. Tell me. What is he going to do?"
"He needs to make the gate."
"Which is?"
"I don't know. A doorway, something for the Great Whatever to come through. He mentioned it back before... before we did the first ritual. After that, he didn't talk nearly as much. He just had us help him whenever he needed, and left us in the dark the rest of the time."
"Was he building it? Out of what?"
He shrugged. "Some wood. Two-by-fours. Copper wire. Some other stuff he got through me or somebody else."
"And where was he doing it?"
"I don't know. I don't think anybody knew. He kept that to himself. He took the stuff away himself and came back when he needed more."
This was getting me whole bunches of nowhere.
"Okay. What was his timetable? When was he planning to have the gate finished and use it? Did he need any of the rest of you to be involved?"
"I don't know! I think, maybe, he was going to have some of the other guys help him --he didn't tell me as much. He used to stay at my house, but somebody broke in and almost got the book, and I think he held that against me."
Right. I decided not to comment on that one.
My cell phone rang. It was Tony Fleming.
"I got something, but it ain't much," he said. "A black-and-white saw that truck you were looking for, the one that belonged to the corpse. Not parked anywhere, though. It was driving into the Freeport Industrial Park. By the time they realized it was something they were looking for and went back to find it, it had gotten lost in the warehouses."
"You sure it's the right truck?" I asked. "Doesn't sound like they were checking plates."
"The description we have says that there are two stickers on the back bumper. One's from Yosemite Park, and the other one's one of those John Birch Society ‘Get US Out of the UN' deals. I guess there could be two identical red Silverados with the same combination of bumper stickers, but hey."
"Right. Somewhere in the Freeport Center, huh?"
"They didn't see it on the street, and they couldn't very well go around opening warehouse doors on that kind of slim justification."
"No, that helps. Thanks, Tony." I hung up.
"Phillip," I asked, "does Mueller have his own car?"
"No. He hitchhiked into town."
"So how's he been getting his supplies to wherever he's making this doorway?"
"We..." He shifted on the park bench. "When we did our first ritual, one of us died. A guy named Darren Piper. He didn't have any family or anything, so we let Hans borrow the keys."
So. Mueller had Piper's truck. Mueller's been transporting materials somewhere to build his gateway. Piper's truck was seen entering the Freeport Center.
"Phillip," I said as I stood up, "I think I have what we investigative professionals refer to as a 'clue.' And it's about damned time."
** ** **
I told Castler to check himself into a motel and call my cell phone with the room and phone numbers. I was headed back to my place, and I wasn't about to take him back and introduce Beth to her first white supremacist.
What I arrived home to was a portrait worthy of Norman Rockwell. The Gordell sisters, Ernst Vielstich, and Beth were all sitting on the front porch, enjoying mulled apple cider. Ernst was regaling Beth with some amusing German folktale, and Beth was showing all the gaps in her smile.
"Well, I see everyone's met," I said. "Beth, Mr. Vielstich will be staying over at our place tonight while his apartment door gets fixed."
"Miss Avalon," Vielstich said, "I have already instructed your daughter to call me 'Ernst.' If you insist that she address me formally, I may have to fire you."
"Whatever," I said, "although you seem to have a double standard when it comes to addressing me."
"That is simply chivalry. A double standard with the best of intentions."
"Ah hah. Let me talk to you inside for a bit."
We left CiderFest and sat in the living room. I told him the useful information I had gotten during my time with Castler, skipping the lengthy all-American justification for racism.
"This is helpful... and ominous," Vielstich said. "I have also put some of my time to good use. I excused myself from Mrs. Atlee and Mrs. Burkett for a short time before Beth arrived home and examined one of the reference volumes I brought with me.
"It was not chosen at random. Although my recollection of the rituals contained in the stolen book are unreliable, I do know that astrological conjunctions of a certain character do play a part in the timing of the invocation."
"What, like five planets in a row?" I asked.
"Nothing so dramatic, nor so rare. Just any number of patterns of star arrangements, moon phase, planetary position, and such.
"I am glad I took the time to peruse my sources. It appears that tonight would be a night especially well suited to Hans Mueller's purposes. In fact, there won't be an occasion similarly appropriate until mid to late December."
I stared at him.
"So what you're telling me," I said, "is that Hans Mueller, along with whatever entity now lives inside him, will be invoking some incredibly powerful demonic being tonight."
"Almost certainly."
I let out a long breath and felt my shoulders sag with deflation.
"What the hell are we going to do?"
