He nods a greeting to me, then stands aside and lets me in. Nothing in the room has remained intact. Every piece of furniture is mangled almost beyond recognition. A large flat-screen TV is now nothing more than a haze of exploded glass framed by a twisted curl of black plastic. End tables have been rendered into polished splinters, their drawers lying half buried in the remains of a mutilated purple throw rug. I can only identify the couch by the scraps of yellowish foam and blue cloth clinging to the splinters. It’s as if the room has been torn apart by a tornado.
A tornado with claws.
I count at least three different sets of marks high on the walls, each with four jagged parallel slash marks. Each set is the breadth of a hubcap, three feet long and cutting clear through the wallboard. Where the slashes cross a support beam huge gouges have been hacked into the wooden beams. I stand in front of one and reach up. With fingertips outstretched, I can almost touch the topmost gash. Whatever it was that did this is enormous.
Then there’s the body.
The man looks as if he’s been laid down under a pile driver. Like Peter outside, his body has been beaten nearly flat, his skin ruptured from the force of the blows. The walls have been sprayed with blood that has been violently pounded out the body. After that the thing, whatever it was, had set to work with its claws, thought it avoided damaging his head. His receding blond hair is soaked with blood and darker things.
I run the list of usual suspects through my mind, trying in vain to erase the image of the mutilated body. Werewolves would have torn the body to pieces and then eaten it rather than pulverize it, and no werewolf that ever existed had a claw span like the marks on the wall indicated. Hell, it’s even bigger than the diameter of a werebear’s paw, the largest of all terrestrial weres. Besides, even though I didn’t get a clear look at whatever it was that had kicked my ass I’m dame sure that it’s neither wolf nor bear. The only creature I can think of that is physically capable of doing damage like that is a mountain troll, but they stay clear of the lowlands and anyway the only tribes that are native to North America live in the Rockies. Besides, trolls aren’t exactly subtle. If there was one in town, someone would have called the Marines by now.
I step gingerly over a small tendril of blood, ignoring the remains in favor of the damage to the room. Something drags at my eye, and I obligingly turn. I look over the shattered living room with closer scrutiny. Something doesn’t fit. I open my field of vision, trying to take the whole scene in, and that’s when I see it. Or rather, them. The drawers.
That’s it. The drawers of the two end tables are undamaged. They’ve been removed carefully, at least relatively, and their contents emptied to the floor. The rest of the room has been destroyed on top of them, but they’ve been handled gingerly.
They had been pulled out before the smashing started.
That brings out several facts about whatever it was that has slaughtered two men and trashed the house like the Tasmanian Devil. It isn’t anything as simple as some rampaging beast. It has a real, reasoning mind. Yeah, Madeline. I’d say this Cleave of yours attracted some attention, all right. And it tore apart your delivery boys as if they were gingerbread men.
I sidestep through the rubble, nudging through the splintered furniture until I’m standing over them, then gingerly kneel down. I poke through the mess with one knuckle, trying my best not to mess up the mess. After a minute’s digging I hit pay dirt. I use two fingers to pry the small item from the debris, shaking off dust and grit.
It’s a thin wooden box, about nine inches long, partially crushed but largely intact. I’m no archaeologist, but it looks old. Really, really old, but heavier than it looks which implies sturdiness. The dark wood has been polished intensely, almost glowing in my hand. Tiny sigils have been meticulously carved into it, tiny, delicate characters inlaid in delicate whorls. I hold them close to my face, trying to decipher them, but come up short. If it is a language, it’s one I don’t recognize. I open it, exposing a bed of very modern custom cut black foam. The receptacle inside is perfectly cast to fit a very large straight razor when folded.
Interesting. The damage to the box has been done separately from the damage to the room. It’s still mostly intact, not destroyed with the same wild abandon as the rest of the room. I guess that it had been picked up, opened, dropped and stepped on once it had been discovered to be empty.
“Now I want an answer,” Matthiassen says from behind me. I come two inches off the floor. The man is quieter than a ghost, and I know that to be a fact. “What did this?” he asks.
I palm the box, keeping it out of his view, then slip it the waistband of my pants as I stand up. “I think a more appropriate question would be, ‘Where is it’?”
“DeLong…”
“I don’t have your answer, Math. I really don’t.”
“If you did, would you tell me?”
I hold my tongue a second longer than I should.
“I thought so,” he says. “What about the third man? Any idea where he might be?”
“I don’t know anything about a third man,” I say.
“We’ve got two bodies,” Math says, “but three wallets. None of them have any kind of identification in them. And here you are, getting your ass kicked on the lawn right outside the house, and you still have no answers to give me.”
I let my eyes close against the pounding headache. He’s only half right but I can’t point that out, and the answers I do have wouldn’t help him at all. “I know you don’t believe me, but I am sorry, Math.”
He steps back, clearing my path to the door. “It’s time for you to go,” he says, just in case I can’t take a hint.
I want to argue, but he’s right. Maybe if I had time I could sift through the evidence and find out what kind of monster had been there, but I doubt it. I’ve already seen enough of it and its handiwork that I’m pretty sure that it’s something the Aegis hasn’t prepared me for. I tiptoe through the wreckage, passing an arm’s length from Adam.
“Good luck,” I whisper as I pass.
“To us all,” he answers.
Outside the damp air feels like heaven, washing off the stink of blood and death. I wish it could do the same for the sweat and grime I’ve accumulated so far, too. Madeline is standing in the open front door, peering inside, while cops and crime scene workers unknowingly file in and out past her. I walk outside and she follows silently.
“DeLong,” Math calls after me.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t leave us out. You get anything, you let us know.”
“If you can help,” I say, “I’ll call you.”
As I look back I realize I’ve drifted into the dead man’s line of sight. His remaining eye seems to fix on me, piteous beneath its half curtain of ruined flesh and coagulated blood. The utter blankness, the great void behind that eye strikes me like a physical blow, much harder than even the sight of its owner’s mangled body. He’d died crying for help while the monster had savaged him. But nobody had saved him. I’d been too late. Again.
I barely make it off the porch.
I run across the street, heedless of any oncoming traffic. I collapse against my Jeep’s rear bumper, lean forward and vomit hard. I have to wait for several minutes before my body is done racking itself, then I lean my forearm against the car and my head against my forearm, breath rattling in my chest. I hack and spit, trembling from more than just the vomiting.
“Are you okay?”
Madeline is standing next to me. I never heard her walk up. I have to stop letting that happen. It’s a bad habit to fall into no matter what job you have.
“It’s been a rough night,” I answer. I pull the box from my waistband and hand it to her. Under the moon’s glow the sigils seem to shine, small and eerie twists of light carving tiny little arcs in the darkness. I try again to identify them, but with no more success. She opens the box and frowns when she finds it empty.
“It’s out of its box,” she whispers, voice heavy wi
th dread. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know. And the guy inside is in no condition to tell me.”
“Who was it?”
“Which one had the receding hairline?”
She rubs her temples. “Ernest. What about Bruce?”
“No sign, but he can’t have gotten too far since he left his car here. We don’t know how long before the attack he left.”
“So Bruce still has the Cleave on him.”
“Seems logical. Can you track him the same way you did Peter there?”
She shakes her head. “Peter carried my totem. It’s a stone in his belt buckle. Next time everyone gets one.”
She closes the box hard, tiny splinters falling into the street. I pry it from her hand before she unconsciously crushes it. “Ian, we have to find it. Please, you have to help me. Outside of its case it’s detectable. If I don’t get the Cleave back and under concealment, it’ll be Armageddon. The longer it’s loose the more things will try to get it. Monsters, Ian. Real monsters. The lid is going to come off it all and this town will be shattered. People will die. Please, Ian. Please help.”
I pull a slow breath between my teeth. She doesn’t know me, I tell myself. If she did, she’d know she didn’t need to be so heavy-handed. I’m not one to leave when I’m needed. I walk around to the passenger door, open it and reach into the glove compartment. I drop the box inside and take out a bottle of Advil, shaking four into my palm and dry swallowing them. “Give me a number where I can reach you.”
“I’m coming with you. You need me.”
“Like hell. You left most of your power at home, so as muscle you can’t cut it here. You don’t know this town and I can’t be watching you while I do this. Now tell me where you’ll be and get out of my way.”
She scowls, and I’m grateful for my immunity. “I rented a room at the Beachfront.”
I know it. It’s a small but elegant hotel not far from the Bay. “I’ll call you when I have it,” I say. “What does Bruce look like?”
Instead of answering she reaches into my glove compartment. I grab her wrist before she can get her whole hand into it.
“That’s dangerous,” I warn her. “What do you want?”
“Paper and a pen.”
I find a pen and the receipt from my last oil change and hand them to her. She spreads the paper on the hood, blank side up, and breaks the top off the pen before I can protest. Holding it over the paper she whispers a word and the ink sprays out in a fine mist. I almost say something nasty about the ink messing up my paint, but then I remember I’m protesting an ink spill on a car that had a bumper torn off by the ghost of a bull that had been the subject of a ritual sacrifice. It would have been in vain, anyway, since the ink settles entirely on the paper in a portrait of almost photographic quality.
“Handy,” I say, looking at the picture. Bruce looks to be about five feet eight or so, thickly built, bald with thin eyebrows and an expression of concentration. He looks like he’s seen a lot, and when bitten he looks the type to bite back. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt. Around his throat is a starched white collar.
“A priest?”
“Former. He left the Church years ago. He’s the one who actually found the Cleave, in an archeological dig in Mexico.”
“Then why the collar?”
“He says he left God, but God didn’t leave him. He’s a good man. Just strong in his beliefs.”
“Can’t fault him for that. Go rest. I’ll call you when I have it.”
“Good luck,” she says, and walks off. She passes within smelling distance of half a dozen cops and rescue workers, but none of them so much as glance in her direction. Good cloaking spell, but I’ve seen better. She walks down the sidewalk back in the direction of the Hole in the Wall, finally disappearing around the corner. She’s barely out of sight when I sense a presence behind me. I don’t even have time to turn.
“Hello, Ian,” a thin, lifeless voice says. I cringe when I hear it. Even though I haven’t heard it in three years, it’s a voice that, once heard, nobody could ever forget.
“Funny,” I say casually, “I was just thinking about you.”
I turn slowly. The man behind me is tall, easily six and a half feet, as thin as a wisp of smoke and just as colorful. I’ve never seen him in anything but a dull gunmetal suit over a washed-out white shirt, utterly devoid of life or color. Jacket, shirt, and tie, all the same monochromatic lifelessness. His clothes match his skin, which is spectral in its colorlessness from the tips of his fingers to the crown of his bald head. The only color he sports is the old-fashioned sepia sunglasses he never takes off.
His name, of course, is Mr. Pale. He used to be my boss.
“You don’t seem happy to see me,” he says gravely.
“Why should I be? You only show up when the shit’s two inches from the fan.”
He aims his sunglasses at me. When it becomes apparent he doesn’t plan to follow that up I say, “Why are you here?”
“There is a problem developing in your town.”
“This town’s full of problems, remember? Be more specific.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
He could have elaborated, but that wasn’t his style. He’s the type who likes to make you ask questions. “Did the farseers pick something up?”
“No. They’ve felt some kind of difficulty in this area, but they couldn’t produce any specifics. That leads me to believe that you will be involved in some way.”
“Then what makes you think there’s any more of a problem around here than usual?”
He’s probably looking at me, but with those damn sunglasses I can’t be sure. “I have other sources,” he says, “and I see that they have not been completely misplaced. What has happened here?”
Madeline’s warning is very much on my mind. “Tonight I was asked to find a magical item that has been lost here. It’s called the Cleave. That ring any bells?”
He cocks his head, thinking. Then he shakes his head. I’m a bit surprised.
“Really?” I ask. “I’m told that it’s something very old and special.”
“Old items can change identities almost as often as people do. Names are often meaningless at best.”
“Think that’s what your sources mean?”
“No way to know for certain. There was too much tumult in the ether. All they could say with conviction is that something will happen in this region, and soon. And it will be calamitous.”
“Don’t suppose you can send anyone to back me up?
He shakes his head minutely. “Since the farseers can’t pinpoint an exact problem the Sovereigns won’t commit their resources.”
The Sovereigns. The Aegis’ upper management. About as flexible and quick to action as any average government, which of course means not at all. “Guess your word isn’t enough for them.”
“You know better than that. All I can do is offer you this warning. Stay alert and be careful,” he breathes, walking out of sight behind my Jeep. He doesn’t come back.
All doubt has been removed from my mind. I’ve never known the Aegis farseers to be wrong. The arrival of Madeline and her Cleave is too timely to be a coincidence. I have to believe that they’re the source of this “calamity”, which just goes to show that her paranoia about the razor’s power has been justified. Everything points to there being a very good chance that this town is balancing precariously on the edge of Hell.
I check my watch: quarter to four. I’m desperately short of ideas, so I need a professional opinion. There are two people in town who fit the bill, but unfortunately only one of them is a viable choice at the moment and that one’s opinion won’t be gentle in coming. Worse than that, before I can ask that favor I need to ask another, and likely worse, one. I reluctantly push away from the car and start walking towards the ambulance.
Four
“I really don’t have time for this, Mr. DeLong,” Claire said as she stows a clipboard in a drawer.
�
�Last time we saw each other you called me Ian.”
“Last time we saw each other I was almost lobotomized. Plus, I’d almost gotten eaten by a hellhound.”
“I tried to get you help, but you never returned my calls.” A deep rumble rolls overhead. The storm is closing in, and none too slowly either.
“Spare me. What can I do to make you leave?”
I bring out the small box and set it in front of her. Her antagonism vanishes instantly, replaced by cautious curiosity. “Where did you get this?”
“Tell me what it is. Then I’ll share.”
“Don’t want to clue me in?”
“I don’t want to prejudice your opinion.”
She focuses on the box. She isn’t working her magic right now. This is strictly knowledge.
“I don’t like those markings,” she says. “They look like Latin, but I’ve never seen script like this. Can’t you read it?”
“Sorry, I don’t speak Latin.”
“Didn’t they cover that at the Aegis?”
“They covered hellhounds.”
She reaches for the box, but her hand pauses six inches away from it.
“What’s the matter?”
“I… don’t want to touch it.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“I just don’t like it. It’s… evil.”
Interesting. Since the box is touching my hand it shouldn’t be functioning on a magical level. Whenever I come in contact with a magical item I disrupt whatever spells are worked into it. Essentially it stops being magical for as long as I maintained contact. A side effect of my immunity to magic. Assuming the box does have some innate magical quality, my skin is short-circuiting it right now, which means that Claire’s reaction to the box is coming from something deeper than whatever spells were worked into it.
I also find it interesting that in her borrowed body Madeline never showed this kind of reaction to the box. Maybe the distance from her true body insulated her from its effect, or else Simon had been on the money with his musical message. “Evil? Claire, it’s just a box.”
Swim Like Hell: A Visit to Superstition Bay Page 5
