Robert Weinberg - A Logical Magician

“I figured you probably used the chem lab to brew up those artificial narcotics so popular with the rich suburban punks,” said Anderson, sneering. Pulling a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, he stepped closer to Jack, the gun steady as a rock in his grip. “So, I personally staked out this building ever since you disappeared. Sooner or later, I knew you would show up again.”

“The criminal always returns to the scene of the crime,” said Jack. “That’s nuts.”

“Sure it is,” said Anderson. “But look who’s here. Put your hands out in front of you, Collins. Real slow, now.”

“Don’t bother, Jack,” said Cassandra from the front door of the lab. The Amazon moved so quietly that she had approached completely undetected. Her staff lashed out like a snake, its silver tip kissing Anderson’s hand. Bones cracked like peanut brittle. The security chief yelped in pain and dropped his gun. But he refused to give up.

Lurching forward, Anderson slammed his body into Jack’s. Together they tumbled against a lab table. Not bright, but tough, the security man knew exactly what he was doing. A raised knee caught Jack in the groin, bringing tears to his eyes. Shielding his broken hand with his body, Anderson whipped his other arm around Jack’s neck. Straightening, he wrenched Jack upright, so that the two of them stood facing Cassandra.

“Do anything stupid, sister,” said Anderson, “and I’ll break your boyfriend’s neck.”

Jack gasped for air, feeling lightheaded. He wished the security chief hadn’t used the term “boyfriend” with the Amazon.

Cassandra, her walking stick aimed like a spear at the security chief’s head, hesitated. “Let him go,” she finally declared, “before you make me really mad.”

Anderson laughed. “I’m shaking.” With a snarl of rage, he tightened his grip around Jack’s neck. “His windpipe can’t stand much more pressure. One more twist and your druggie friend is in the obituary column. Time for you to drop the stick. Now!”

Her eyes burning with anger, Cassandra lowered her staff to the floor. For a second Jack suspected she planned to launch the stick like a spear at Anderson. Evidently, the same thought occurred to the security chief. Carefully, he shifted his position so that Jack’s body completely shielded him from the Amazon. Raising her empty hands to indicate her compliance, Cassandra backed away from the wood staff.

“Smart girl,” said Anderson. Grunting with effort, he slowly started to shuffle to the door of the lab, dragging Jack along with him. “Stay right where I can see you. Benny Anderson knows all the tricks in the book, and then some. Twitch funny and Collins’s neck goes snap.”

They were less than five feet from the exit when an unexpected figure filled the doorway.

“What is the meaning of this disgraceful conduct, Mr. Anderson?” declared Darrell Quiggly, Dean of Students. A tall, thin man, with iron-gray hair and distinguished features, Quiggly filled many roles on campus, including that of Anderson’s boss. “Release that young man at once.”

“But, Dean…” began Anderson, swinging around to confront the official. “This is that drug…”

“No excuses, Anderson,” interrupted Quiggly, his voice raised in anger. “I said release him. Violence against students is strictly forbidden, no matter what the reason. Immediately, if you value your job at this university.”

The Dean’s appearance and the confusion he caused was all the diversion Cassandra needed. Jack sensed rather than saw her grab her walking stick, position it correctly, and thunk the security chief across the head in the span of mere seconds. Silently, Anderson released his grip around Jack’s throat and collapsed to the floor unconscious.

Swallowing and rubbing his neck, Jack stared at the Dean, waiting for Quiggly’s reaction. Surprisingly, a broad grin crossed the school official’s face.

“Fooled you too,” he chuckled, his features already twisting like Silly Putty. “Damn, I’m good.”

“Simon,” said Jack, barely able to speak. “You’re the best.”

“Lucky we found those battery packs as soon as we entered the photo department,” said the changeling. “I sent Fritz to the car with them and came to lend a hand here. Anderson’s ranting and raving cued me in on what was happening and I reacted accordingly.”

Gingerly, Jack touched the unmoving security guard with his foot. “What do we do with Benny?”

“Leave him there,” said Cassandra, with a shrug. “The tap I administered should be good for an hour or more. That’s plenty of time for us to disappear. Considering your reputation already, a few broken bones and stolen equipment won’t change anything,”

“It might add a few more years to your sentence,” declared Simon. “Assuming your case ever makes it to trial. I figure fifty years to life at the moment.”

“Maybe longer,” said Jack, grinning. “We better save Merlin, because there’s no way in hell I can salvage my reputation on my own anymore.”

Stepping over Anderson’s body, he walked over to the storage shelves. Carefully, he lifted the long black rectangular tube from where he had placed it only minutes before.

“See if you can find another one of these,” he said to his companions. “The one thing I’ve learned from reading hundreds of fantasy novels is that it never hurts to have a spare super-weapon when dealing with the forces of darkness.”

Roger hated animals. He considered them dirty, stupid, and useless creations, placed on Earth for one purpose and one purpose alone—to serve as food for people like him. Not surprisingly, he had never visited the municipal zoo. If asked to list a hundred places in the city he wanted to visit, the zoo undoubtedly would be number one hundred, following even hospital emergency rooms at midnight, unsupervised kindergarten classes, and hare krishna festivals. Yet, despite his inner revulsion for the surroundings, he found his trip to the zoo on May first strangely fascinating.

His “uncle,” as he named The Crouching One for those few mortals who encountered the demigod, had insisted on the excursion. Ever since learning of the existence of the zoo from a newspaper article a week before, the Lord of the Lions had pressed Roger to schedule an afternoon sojourn at the wildlife preserve. It seemed singularly appropriate that they visit the park on what was scheduled to be the day of the ancient god’s greatest triumph. Or, as Roger secretly hoped, his greatest failure.

Dressed in a bright yellow shirt adorned with red flowers, loose-fitting slacks, and sandals, the Crouching One appeared a typical senior citizen out for a day of sun and relaxation. Dark sunglasses kept hidden its blazing eyes. It walked slowly and carefully, avoiding human contact as much as possible, and remained surprisingly polite considering its godlike pride. Even Roger, expecting a disaster of near biblical proportions, was impressed by the Lord of the Lions’s demeanor.

They spent most of the day at the lion enclosure. A warm spring sun had lured the beasts outside, and they rested on the rocky perches and grassy knolls of their huge compound. The zoo tried to duplicate their animals’ original habitats as closely as possible, and the lions appeared quite comfortable in their savanna-like surroundings. A high concrete wall and wide trench separated them from the idle and the curious.

The Crouching One stared at the huge beasts with a single-minded concentration that after a few minutes Roger found disturbing. Though he knew the origins of the demigod’s title, the Lord of the Lions, for the first time he realized exactly how true was that name. The shape and form of the Crouching One’s skull uncannily resembled that of a jungle cat. Even the way the demigod stood unmoving, as if ready to pounce, approximated that of the huge beasts.