A Mystery Story in Serial

The Coms Center was an old hotel in a run-down but not totally hopeless area of the city. The district had once had its own commercial center - a few blocks of storefronts, an empty movie theater, and the hotel that was now the Coms - but mostly it was a neighborhood of small houses built at the turn of the last century for families of modest means. That was pretty much what it still was, not exactly shabby but no longer quite so clean and new. Urban renewal had spared it the ravages of total destruction and somehow it had survived with most of its dignity and still a few of its dreams intact. But like all neighborhoods it had its problems, hence the Coms.

Private charity had financed the Center, providing the funds for both the original remodelling and the expenses of its continuing operation. Sterling had heard rumors that the sources of its income were somewhat shady, but months of investigation both from within and without had led him to nothing more substantial than a discovery that it was a favorite charity of some rather eccentric churches of small membership and unusual beliefs. But they seemed to be completely disconnected from the day-by-day operation of the institution itself, even if there had been anything improper about them. And from what Sterling had been able to discover there wasn't.

The Center wasn't for recovering drug addicts, alcoholics, or chronic troublemakers. It was simply intended to help those who had run across some personal hard times get back on their feet - a rather tightly structured environment within which those who were willing to make the effort could get a second start. It was part of the stated philosophy of the Center that anyone who wanted to improve himself had every right not to be victimized by those who prey on the unfortunate, and that was primarily what the Center attempted to provide - an environment in which its guests could feel reasonably safe and secure as they tried to put their lives back together. Not very spectacular, and not tackling the worst of humanity's problems, but it served a purpose. And it seemed to be working. Sterling had found nothing about it to condemn, and his final article had been entirely complimentary. Perhaps that was why it hadn't found a publisher, since the news media generally tend to love scandals.

The building itself appeared pretty much as it had been back when it was a hotel. The only concession to modern needs had been the construction of a small parking lot at the rear, accessible through a narrow alleyway between the hotel and an empty store to its left. The parking lot was public in the sense that anyone could park there - at least during the day - but its secluded access made it difficult even to find, and a guard was posted to watch over it for constant security.

Sterling pulled his not-very-new-model car into the drive between the buildings and found a place to park just as the sky was darkening and the lights in the lot were flickering on with their sour-stomach yellow glare. As he walked past the small guardhouse he waved at the uniformed guard inside. The man nodded politely but gave no sign that he enjoyed having to do so. Nevertheless, Sterling decided he had done the equivalent of signing in and made his way to the rear entrance of the building.

The upper rooms where the tenants stayed were basically off limits to outsiders, though in theory one could gain access to them by signing in at the desk. For security reasons this was seldom allowed, however. Sterling remembered from the days that he had stayed there that security inside the building was very tight, both to keep those who lived there safe and to drive off those tenants who would choose to use the Center for less than honorable purposes. It had been set up to be a strict and controlling environment, and from what Sterling recalled it had certainly been so.

But as he came into the lobby he found that things seemed to have changed considerably since his last visit. The lobby was still as clean as it had been but somehow it now looked cluttered and unkempt. The furniture seemed to be the very same pieces that had been there before, only now more aged and worn. Young people of both sexes and varied styles of clothing were draped everywhere, crowded together in masses on the couch watching an old movie on the public TV or laughing loudly at one another's juvenile inanities in crowds clustered randomly about the room. It looked like a party that hadn't quite got off the ground yet and Sterling felt like an overage and unwelcome intruder.

He hesitated in the doorway, glancing toward the unoccupied desk, but then a body broke away from the masses and rushed across the room to grab him companionably by the elbow.

"Hey, dude, you came!" Sterling recognized Hal Armand, now dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt with a hard to read, poorly spelled word in the front (it didn't quite seem an obscentiy but then perhaps Sterling simply missed the reference - he often did). The young man seemed much more relaxed than he had been at work - hardly a surprise, Sterling supposed. His hair, no longer restrained under its paper cap, hung in somewhat unclean locks on either side of his thin face, making him look somewhat like a horse that hadn't been eating very well lately. His eyes were somewhat sunken and he seemed slightly high, though unless the Center had gone completely to ruin Sterling thought that unlikely. But he was grinning broadly and turned to the young man at his side. "Here's your solution, man," he said. He jerked his head toward Sterling. "This guy can figure out anything."

Sterling and the stranger looked one another over with the typical caution of two strangers who weren't quite sure just what they were getting into. Sterling already knew that his appearance was less than impressive. Somewhat overweight, not especially tall, on the wrong side of the age curve, he would never win any beauty contests. The young man studying him, on the other hand, was remarkably good-looking. Tall, lean, perhaps twenty years of age, his hair was a rare color of butter blond and his large, soulful eyes were almost painfully blue. Mother Nature had definitely put some extra work into his straight, thin nose, high cheekbones, and full, sensuous lips. Sterling felt a stab of envy. Even at his best he would never have been able to compete with this guy. "This is Ev," Hal told him. "He's the one with the little problem." He grinned at his companion, who merely gave him a serious look in return and then held out his hand politely to Sterling.

"Evan Humblesley," he said. "Very pleased to meet you, sir." Sterling almost shook his head incedulously to hear that the young man had an impeccable upper class British accent. Talk about having all the breaks. "Perhaps we can go upstairs away from all this noise where we can talk in private?" the youthful paragon asked.

Sterling blinked. "Well, I suppose so," he said doubtfully, glancing toward the empty desk. "But I can't sign in...."

The two young men gave him twin, blank looks. "What for?" Hal asked. "You're not going to stay here, are you?"

Obviously things had changed considerably since he had been there last, Sterling decided. He merely shrugged inwardly and followed the boys up several flights of creaking stairs, down a hallway with bad lighting and worn rugs, and into one of the rooms.

That, at least, was much as he remembered it - small and austere, with cream-colored walls and ceiling, simple fixtures, no TV, a counter with a sink and inset hotplate - a place for temporary survival but offering no luxuries.

The clutter was only moderate, considering that its occupant was a boy barely past his teens. A few scattered clothes, some mail that had clearly been addressed to occupant, some dirty plates and bags from a fast-food place (not the one where Hal worked, Sterling noticed with some interest - nobody ever ate where they worked), a slightly funky unwashed smell - typical but not terrible. Sterling wondered whose room it actually was. Hal didn't strike him as being that well organized.

But it seemed to be his room, nonetheless. the young burger-flipper scraped some clutter off one of the chairs onto the floor and nodded toward Sterling. "Have a seat." he invited. "It's clean." he added as the older man hesitated to take him up on the offer.

"Let's hope so," Sterling muttered as he sank onto the somewhat worn cushions. Hal perched on the arm of the couch opposite and Evan, somewhat disconcertingly, sank to the floor, folded his long legs up beneath himself lotus-fashion, and leaned his back against the wall. Sterling knew he could never match the grace of such a simple, unconscious movement.

He waited poiltely for someone to speak but the young men seemed content simply to sit there, Hal idly fingering a pimple on his cheek and Evan humming softly to himself while beating out time on his knee with one hand. Finally Sterling cleared his throat.

"I thought you had to go to work?" he asked Hal pointedly. The young man seemed startled.

"Yeah, right." He turned to Evan. "You'd better explain, Ev."

The young man shrugged. "I'm not very good at talking, I'm afraid." It didn't sound much like an apology.

"Well someone is going to have to tell me something," Sterling said impatiently. "Or why else did I come here?"

The young men exchanged glances. "It's just - do you know of my group? The Cult of Skulls?" Evan asked.

"No, sorry."

Evan laughed slightly. "So much for fame. We're rather well known here in the city, actually. Well not for among your crowd, of course. Among the kids."

"So of course that leaves me out," Sterling agreed. Evan turned his large eyes on him and gave him a thoughtful look.

"Have I offended?" he asked.

"Forget it," Sterling shrugged. "Okay, so you're famous but you have to live in the Coms Center."

"I didn't say we made any money at it," Evan said mildly. "The income level of most musicians is vastly overstated, believe me. And I'm afraid I've had some personal problems..." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

"So tell him," Hal urged. "That's part of it, isn't it?"

"Perhaps." Evan opened his eyes and looked questioningly at Sterling. "Do you believe in curses?"

"Do you?" Sterling countered.

"I don't know. I rather believe I do." He sprang from the floor in one smooth movement and rummaged in the room's one closet. "Here." He tossed something smallish, round, and hard in an unexpecting Sterling's direction.

"Don't drop it!" Hal shouted, leaping forward as the object almost slipped from the older man's startled hands.

"Is this real?" he asked, turning the object gingerly to study it from all angles.

"Oh certainly. From a rare, now-extinct species of man sporting totally black skulls," Evan said. Then he smiled. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be sarcastic. No, of course not. It's ceramic. Modelled on a real skull, though, as you can see if you examine it closely. It's very lifelike."

"So it is," Sterling agreed, looking over the black, shining skull in awe. "Where did you get it?"

"I thought it would be rather a good mascot for a group called the Cult of Skulls," Evan not-quite-answered. "Unfortunately I think it may be cursed."

Sterling looked up at him with the professional blankness he had learned from endless interviews with individuals with unusual beliefs. "What makes you think so?"

Evan looked at him for a moment without speaking, then, turned to Hal. "Do you happen to have a glass anywhere about?"

"On the counter, dude."

Evan shook his head. "Not plastic. I mean a glass glass. Made of glass. Hence the term, 'glass.'"

Hal grinned. "Bloody Englishman always looking down your blueblood nose at the colonials."

Evan smiled somewhat apologetically. "Sorry. I can't help it."

"Ev here is a real Brit," Hal explained over his shoulder as he dug in a cabimet. "He tries to hide it, but the inner snob rises to the surface every now and then. He even has a title."

"Not much of a title, really. We're really very small potatoes, believe me. And I don't have it, my father does," Evan explained. "Also it passes to my older brother, not to me. Primogeniture and all that, you know."

"Oh sure. But I say if your daddy's a duke you gotta be something." Hal returned with a not-too clean, thin-necked wine goblet, which he gave to Evan.

"Not a duke," the young Englishman protested but said no more. He went to the sink, filled the glass with water, then turned and brought it dramatically to his lips.

"Observe," he said, and drank with a flourish. Almost instantly the glass shattered in his hands, pouring water and fragments down his chest.

"Wow!" Hal said wide-eyed. Sterling just grunted, but he had to admit he was impressed.

"I'm rather surprised that worked actually," Evan said, looking down ruefully at his water-stained chest. "Normally they're not quite so forward."

"So this is the curse?" Sterling asked. "You can't take a drink of water?"

"Well if I stick with plastic - which can indeed be a glass, as my benighted colonial friend here observes - or something equally unbreakable I can at least keep from dying of total dehydration," Evan explained. "But generally if I try to handle anything the least bit breakable it - well, it breaks. Rather disconcerting, actually, as you may well imagine."

"Yeah." Sterling glanced down at the skull in his hand, then up to Evan. "And you believe the skull is responsible?"

Evan shrugged. "I rather think so, yes."

"Interesting."

Read Chapter Three of The Cult of Skulls