First You Make a Stone of Your Heart

Bullitt talked with the nurse on duty, and he scheduled an appointment to talk with Devlin at noon, so he took Callahan in tow and went to the original crime scene by the yacht club, then they walked along the sidewalk where Callahan had seen the old man swing the cane -- and sure enough, Bullitt found evidence of a fresh strike in the old concrete, and right where Callahan had indicated it would be.

Weyland's house turned out to be, literally, just yards away from that spot, too.

They crossed Marina and walked up Baker Street until they came to the doctors home, a three-story Spanish colonial, replete with red tile roof and freshly painted light taupe stucco exterior. Bullitt walked up to the door -- and a housekeeper opened it before he had a chance to ring the bell.

"I'm sorry sir, but Miss Devlin is having a bad morning," the girl said, apparently very nervous and speaking as if she was reading from a well rehearsed script, "and her nurse asked me to convey her regrets."

Bullitt, standing with his legs apart and a hand covering his mouth simply nodded. "Ask her to come to the door, please. I'd like to speak to her." The housekeeper hesitated, then curtsied before she closed the door and ran off in a huff, disappearing inside the house and leaving the two detectives standing in clouds of confusion. "Baker Street," Bullitt whispered. "Where the hell do I know that from?"

"You ever read Sherlock Holmes when you were a kid?"

"Of course! That's it! Did you read that stuff too?"

"I think I read a couple of them," Callahan said with a self-deprecating shrug.

"What was the name of that club where he and Watson hung out?"

"The gentleman's club?" Callahan mused. "The Diogenes Club, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, that was it."

The door opened and a nurse stood there looking seriously put-out and angry. "What do you want?" she asked brusquely, her gray eyes leveled like lances ready to do battle.

"I'm Detective Bullitt. Did I speak with you earlier?"

"No. I took over at eleven. What's this all about?"

"We need to speak to Miss Weyland..."

"There isn't a Miss Weyland here," the nurse said.

Callahan cleared his throat: "Devlin? I've been here with her before."

"Oh, you must mean Miss Aubuchon? Devlin Aubuchon?"

"I thought Dr. Weyland..."

"The doctor is Miss Aubuchon's guardian."

"Her guardian?" Callahan sighed, now very confused. "Where is her family?"

"I don't know anything about her background, and you'll excuse me, but are you with the police, too?" she said to Callahan.

So Harry reached into his coat pocket and produced his badge, and that seemed to satisfy the woman -- for now. "We were out sailing together yesterday, and a few questions have come up since. We were hoping to clear them up," Callahan said, smiling as politely as he could.

"I'm sorry," the nurse said, warming a little with Callahan's sudden contrition, "but she's not really up to seeing visitors right now..."

"She was two hours ago," Bullitt growled. "What happened to her?"

"I'm afraid I really don't know. When I read the morning notes it only said that Miss Aubuchon had a bad night and a worse morning and that Dr. Weyland had ordered an increase in her Haldol. She's out like a light right now."

"Haldol?" Callahan said.

"Standard treatment for cases like hers," the nurse said.

"Schizophrenia, you mean?"

The nurse nodded, but she looked away suddenly and Callahan thought the woman was concealing something, or trying to, anyway. "I take it you can't really talk about these things," Callahan said.

"She'll tell us whatever we need to know," Bullitt growled menacingly -- now really getting into the whole 'Good Cop Bad Cop' schtick. "But you know what? Let's cuff her and take her downtown."

"Frank, take a hike," Callahan snarled -- and then he turned to face the cowed nurse. "Do you think we could go inside and talk...just you and me?"

Bullitt grumbled as he walked away from the house, really laying it on thick as he kicked at the sidewalk. "Maybe I should get a search warrant first, huh?" he called out over his shoulder.

Now the grateful nurse nodded at Callahan and let him in, and he could see she was visibly upset. "What did you say her last name is?"

"Aubuchon."

"And what's your name, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Page. Page Sanderson."

"Miss Aubuchon isn't really schizophrenic, is she, Page?"

The nurse shook her head and looked away. "No sir, I don't think she is; in fact, there've been a few times when I thought she was being drugged -- like maybe to keep her quiet."

"You work for Dr. Weyland?"

"I work for the hospital, up on the wards. Dr. Weyland lets us come down here on our days off, he pays cash so..."

"So what you're saying is a lot of people are involved in her care? Are you the only one who thinks..."

"Look, some really weird stuff goes on here, alright? With her. I mean stuff that makes your hair stand on end..."

"Can you tell me..."

"Look, I've already said way too much. No way, man...I can't tell you..."

"Have you ever...when you were with her...seen an owl? A white owl?"

Sanderson stepped back and now she really looked upset. "You saw her, too?"

"Her? The owl?"

"It's not an owl."

"I saw the owl, then I saw her eyes had changed to..."

"Amber," Sanderson sighed. "Yeah, and you better not be around her when that happens."

"What happens...if you are?"

Sanderson looked terrified now, and she started shaking. "You don't...believe me...you don't want to be around her when that happens."

"I was. I got sick, passed out."

"Is that all?"

"What have you experienced...when it happens?"

"I can't really describe it..."

"Have you...did you see a strange creature? Like shiny black, and maybe very tall?"

Sanderson nodded. "Oh yeah. I have...most of us have..."

"Do you get a sense that this thing knows her?"

Another nod. "It's the thing that's really protecting her, Mr Callahan."

"Does the doctor know about this thing?"

Again she nodded. "He isn't what you think he is," she whispered, "so if I was you I'd be very careful what I said around him."

"The doctor isn't who I think he is? What does that mean?"

They heard someone walking through the house. Heavy footsteps, like a man walking on tile.

"You need to leave now. Right now," she said as she pushed him towards the door.

"Okay, I'm going. Thanks," Callahan just managed to say before the door slammed shut. He turned and walked down to the sidewalk, then pulled the microphone out of his coat pocket. "Did you get all that, Frank?"

Bullitt pulled up in Cathy's pale yellow Porsche and pulled the earpiece from the side of his head. "Yeah, and I took notes, too. I think I need a drink..."

C 1.7

They were sitting in The Shadows, which turned out to be Frank's favorite place to grab dinner these days, and they were both looking at the fog roll in; Callahan watched Alcatraz disappear inside the gray mist as the evening turned blue and lights on the far side of the bay turned on and shimmered like dancing fireflies along the hills above Berkeley. Frank had gone to make a call and now suddenly alone, Callahan almost felt lost inside blue mist.

Who were her parents? And who was Peter Weyland? Besides a psychiatrist who could, apparently, summon the nurses of a psychiatric ward almost at will, and then deploy them in 'the care' of a woman half his age. And as far as Callahan could tell, at least so far, Weyland had no obvious romantic interest in Devlin, at all. So, what was it? What compelled this physician to look after the girl?

But...was he looking after her?

Hadn't Sanderson, the nurse, as much as implied that Haldol, a powerful anti-psychotic medication, was being used to control Devlin? That Devlin didn't suffer from hallucinations? That she wasn't schizophrenic?

And this black creature, whatever it was, was trying to protect Devlin?

Bullitt returned to their table and sat heavily, leaning back and rubbing the bridge of his nose just as their waitress arrived with two steins of Paulaner Weissbier, thin slices of orange floating above a cold, thin head. Bullitt nodded and then just looked at the various reflections cast on the surface of the cold stein.

"Harry...none of this makes the slightest sense. None of it. Sanderson saw this thing -- and two people from the yacht club saw the same damn thing, too. And all four witnesses from this morning's homicide described exactly the same goddamn thing. An eight foot tall Creature from the Black Lagoon covered in Pennzoil, its eyes 'dripping with malice' -- according to one of them. And then this Sanderson says the fucker is protecting Miss Weyland, who really isn't Miss Weyland after all."

"When none of your assumptions make sense, it's time to go back and check your assumptions."

Bullitt shook his head. "In this business, Harry, assumptions are toxic. What we need is a bunch of cold, hard facts. Like who is this Weyland character...I mean, who is he, really? And who is Devlin Aubuchon? And we need a timeline, from the time she left the yacht club that first night up to this morning. We need to know exactly where she was at all times. We need to know where this shrink was. We need to know who he got from his ward to come and work at that house during that time period, and their schedules. I want to know who pays them, too; hell, I want to know how much they get paid, not just by who. I want to know which one of those nurses has seen that thing..." Bullitt sighed, his mind drifting. "Ya know, at all three sightings of this Pennzoil monster..." Bullitt drifted off again, then he shook himself back to the moment: "...in each three, Weyland wasn't around, was he?"

Callahan nodded.

"So...maybe Weyland is ducking out of sight and putting on some kind of wetsuit..."

"Frank, are you saying you think Weyland has some kind of electric lance that can vaporize people?"

Bullitt picked up his stein and slammed down the beer -- drinking the half liter stein down in one long pull -- before he looked over the rim of the stein at Callahan: "Until we can prove he doesn't, we have to consider the possibility. But possibilities aren't facts, either. Or are they, Harry?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Bullitt shrugged, looked at a gray ship heading towards the Golden Gate, a Navy hospital ship slipping noiselessly through the fog between Yerba Buena Island and the Embarcadero, probably on its way to Vietnam.

"Did you know the piano player?" Bullitt asked, suddenly changing course.

"Furman? No, never heard him play."

"You ever hear anything about him -- at all?"

"No. But then again, I don't spend a lot of time in those places."

Bullitt nodded. "We have to dig around some, find out if there's a link between Sherman and Devlin."

"What are you thinking?"

"Well, think about it, Harry. Sanderson said she thinks this thing, this Pennzoil Monster, is trying to protect Devlin. Okay. Protect her from what? And why is this thing involved -- if the doc is supposed to be her guardian?"

"What if he's not...?"

"Not what? Protecting her?"

"Yeah. Then what do we do?"

"Not much we can do unless he's holding her against her will, but we'd have a helluva time proving that if she's even slightly off her rocker..."

"There wasn't anything wrong with her when we were out on his boat..."

"Which means what, Harry?"

"That the meds he uses to keep her knocked out had flushed out of her system by then."

Frank nodded. "Makes sense. So, let's proceed on the assumption that Weyland is a bad actor. Where does that lead us?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm not sure that matters, Frank."

"Okay -- tell me. What does matter?"

"That thing. The Pennzoil Monster. Which can't be a monster. You know it and I know it. As silly as it sounded at first, Frank, I think you're onto something. What if that creature is really just someone in a wetsuit wearing some kind of costume..."

"With a lance that vaporizes people? Harry..."

"Why not?"

"Okay, so we ask around, see if it's even possible to build that kind of thing -- but that leads to the next fork in the road."

"Which is?" Callahan asked.

"What if it's not possible, Harry? And what if we can't find a wetsuit or this...costume?"

Callahan shrugged. "Then that means there's an eight foot tall creature out there in the bay utilizing advanced weaponry."

Bullitt sighed as he shook off the possibility. "No...something doesn't feel right, Harry. We're missing something basic."

"You ever done any Scuba diving?"

Bullitt Looked at Callahan and shook his head. "No, and I don't want to learn how to, either."

"You can swim, can't you? I mean, you passed the physical agility test to get into the academy, right?"

Bullitt nodded, but Harry could see it was an evasive maneuver designed to stall for time.

"So," Harry added, "we need to check and see if our assumptions are provable, right? There's only one way we can do that, Frank. We have to go down there and take a look around?"

"Down where?" Frank said nervously.

"The bay. We'll have to check it out."

"You know how to dive?"

"A little. I'm not certified, but I know the basics."

Bullitt looked out at the black water and a shiver ran up his spine. "So? What do we do?"

"Get an instructor, take a few lessons and then have him take us out...for a look around."

Still looking at the water, Bullitt sighed and his head lowered fractionally. "So cold," he whispered. "So cold..."

Now Bullitt's face was old and gray, almost sickly, and Callahan was suddenly concerned for his friend. "You okay, Frank?"

But Bullitt looked up at Callahan again, slowly shaking his head as he did so. "No, Harry. Something is very, very wrong."

+++++

The nurse ran from Devlin's room, calling out for Dr. Weyland as she stumbled and reached out for a wall to stop her fall.

Weyland came out of his study with a little black bag in hand.

"Come quick," the nurse shrieked hysterically. "It's happening again!"

Weyland sprinted past the frightened woman -- wondering why it was so hard to administer a shot...

But when he entered Devlin's room he shuddered to a stop, and with his mouth hanging open he suddenly understood why...

...because as he looked at her, Devlin was slowly fading in and out of view...

...and then he realized she was inside a shimmering sphere, translucent -- yet vaguely blue...

...and suddenly he felt an icy cold mist flooding into her room, and the mist smelled of the sea, the deep sea...

And when he reached out for her the sphere reacted violently and the next thing he knew he had flown across the room and slammed into a wall...

...and when he came to, Weyland knew that Devlin was gone.

And soon he feared, even the memory of her would disappear. Just like last time?

'Hasn't this happened before?' he asked himself, because everything felt so familiar.

But he had remembered his notepad, the one he'd kept in her room and always close at hand, and he started writing down more details of this most recent visit, adding to the trove of information he had already accumulated.

C1.8

On the same morning, two of the department's rescue divers stood in the knee deep waters just a few meters from the steep stone steps closest to the yacht club's main parking lot, waiting for Callahan and Bullitt and their instructor -- and what they knew was going to turn into yet another one of those classic wild goose chases.

There had been hundreds of sighting of the glistening black 'sea monster' since word of the two homicides had hit the Examiner, with dozens of fresh sightings coming in every day since publication. There were already excursion boats taking tourists on Monster Hunts around Fisherman's Wharf, and The National Enquirer had posted rewards for anyone getting a clear photograph of the beast. After almost two weeks not a single verified sighting had been officially recorded, and the two police divers were looking forward to a pleasant morning in the frigid water.

Bullitt was still fiddling with his regulator, fixing it to his 80 pound tank incorrectly before he remembered his gauges and octopus went on his left side. Callahan looked on and shook his head, then lugged his gear down to the water's edge and waited. He thought the five-eighths neoprene wetsuit felt stiff as a board as he waded into waist deep water, and once his tank and vest were secured he knelt and pulled his fins on, then walked into deeper water. Once Bullitt waded out they joined their instructor and went over the dive plan one last time.

"Okay," Dave Mackay said, "we're going to surface swim on snorkels out to the end of the breakwater. That's 700 yards but we're at slack water so it shouldn't be too hard..."

"What exactly are we looking for," Dan O'Malley, the lead police diver asked again.

"You read the reports," Callahan grumbled. "A glowing green ball -- or a fucking sea monster," he added, after spitting out some errant sea water.

The group slipped their masks over their faces and cleared their snorkels then turned and, side by side, they swam out the marina's lone fairway towards the tip of the stone breakwater.

And no one saw a thing.

The group gathered out there and then looked at Mackay. "Okay, the water depth drops off rapidly out here. Let's head to the bottom and we'll use 80 degrees as our primary compass heading."

"How far we going?" O'Malley asked.

"It's 700 yards to the East Marina. We'll surface there and compare tank pressures; hopefully we'll have enough to check out the warehouse pilings."

"Oh, joy," Bullitt mumbled, "that sounds just fuckin' great."

"Are there sharks out there?" Callahan asked.

O'Malley just shook his head at that one, and he had to look away as he tried not to laugh.

"Oh, not too many," Mackay said, "but every now and then Great Whites and Makos show up out here. Even Blues. They follow freighters or come in on the tide."

Bullitt looked down and growled "What the fuckin' hell am I doing out here?" before he put his regulator in his mouth and followed Callahan and Mackay down into the gloomy gray-black water. At eight feet they passed through the first gentle thermocline and the water temperature dropped suddenly from 60 to 56 degrees Fahrenheit; and twenty feet the temp dropped another four degrees and Frank remembered to piss in his wetsuit. The warmth from his urine gathered around his groin and torso, warming him for a few minutes, but as he swam along his pee was flushed completely out of his wetsuit. At thirty feet it was so dark they needed flashlights, and visibility couldn't have been more than twenty feet in any direction.

A motorboat buzzed by overhead, and Bullitt was sure he could make out the deep thrumming sound made by a large diesel motor, the type that powered large, ocean going freighters.

At 36 feet they came to the mud and sand bottom and, after double checking compass headings the group swam off to the east -- side-by-side again but now about ten feet apart.

Bullitt saw something metallic ahead and aimed his flashlight at a discarded can of Pennzoil motor oil and he almost laughed out loud...

...but then that feeling returned...

'This is wrong. We shouldn't be here. This wasn't supposed to happen.'

The words kept repeating and repeating. Then the words changed.

"You should turn back. You don't belong here."

But these words didn't come from inside his thoughts. He heard them.

Bullitt stopped and looked off into deeper water, and then he realized that Harry and the others were gathered next to him.

Mackay picked up his slate and scribbled out a note: "Did you hear that?"

Bullitt nodded and fingered the 'Okay' sign by bringing his thumb and index finger together; Callahan and the police divers did too. Bullitt pointed at his ears, then off into the darkness to their left, to the north. His meaning was clear: 'The voice is over there.'