It had to be Mason who stood and rocked in the corner day after day, scratching the walls and shitting where he perched.
Dusu entered the bathroom. The toilet was clean, but the sink was filled with a black, putrid slime. He covered his nose and mouth. He took several pictures. Plastic cups sat on the counter. Dusu took a cup and scooped a sample from the sink. He backed out of the room, gave it one last glance, and left.
56
“Interesting,” the chemist said, handing the sample with printouts over the counter to Dusu.
Business late in the evening was slow, and the chemist had said he always had time to do Dusu a favour. Business is business. “Favours are good for business,” he had said with a wink.
The chemist had been relatively quick. Dusu had waited less than an hour.
Dusu stood on the other side of the counter, flipping through the printouts, reading. Confused. “Gold and muriatic acid? Muriatic acid breaks down gold, doesn’t it?” Dusu asked, looking up from the printout.
The chemist nodded.
Dusu continued to read. “Cyanide. Iron. Lead. Sulfur. And you jotted something in pencil. ‘Carmot.’ What is carmot?”
The chemist leaned in and said quietly, “An element which no longer exists. Some consider it mythological. I would not have exposed it, had I not found the traces of red powder under the microscope. I tested and retested, and my computer kept telling me it was unknown. But I am no amateur, Inspector. What I have up here,” he tapped himself on the side of his head, “is history combined with experience. My ancestors have documented elements computers spit out as nonsense. Carmot is an element from the philosopher’s stone.” The chemist smiled. “You’re familiar with the stone?” the chemist asked.
“Somewhat,” Dusu answered.
“The stone has magical properties,” the chemist said. “It can turn base metals into gold. Heal illnesses. Prolong life. Revive the dead. Clone.”
“And?”
His smile faded. “And what?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t try dipping metal in this. Did it work?”
The chemist sighed. He ducked behind the computer and withdrew a gold coin. “Only, it’s not real gold. Fool’s gold,” he said with disappointment.
“You didn’t try drinking it, did you?” Dusu asked.
The chemist wrinkled his nose. “Eh. No.”
“Have you told anyone about your finding?” Dusu asked.
The chemist closed his eyes and solemnly shook his head.
“If you did,” Dusu said with warning in his voice, “you will have every fleece and sangoma knocking on your shop door, ready to do whatever it takes to get ahold of this stuff. It won’t matter to them it doesn’t fully work. To them, it will be good enough. I can’t protect you from a mob,” Dusu added, for good measure.
“I’m not stupid, Inspector. You didn’t tell anyone you were coming here, to me, did you?”
“I’m not stupid either.”
Dusu took the papers and sample and walked out to his car. He had an idea of where Mason was, and why. He planned to call for backup if he saw Mason's rental car parked along Victoria Road; his car would no doubt be outside her gate. If Mason had already hopped the gate, then it might be too late to help him.
“Your relationship with man-maggot’s dead friend can be quite useful now that he is in our hands, and I mean that quite literally, Lowther.
“You say you have heard man-maggot talk with his dead friend as if he is in heaven looking down on man-maggot and listening? As if his friend is an angel awaiting the call to answer maggot-man’s prayers? Excellent. Heh, heh, heh.
“Your job is to take this imaginary relationship to the next level. Make man-maggot think the relationship can be coddled, and the dead friend is there for him, alive and real. Tangible. Once our man-maggot begins to trust this relationship, then you will push our man-maggot over the edge so quickly he won’t even realize what happened until it is too late.”
“Yes, master.”
57—Mason, the Reporter
The car slowed to a crawl as I pulled off Victoria Road alongside her gate.
“We have to hop the gate,” I said, getting out of the rental.
I stepped into my worn footprint in the dirt. I peered through the trees, looking for her.
Lowther reappeared on the other side of the gate.
“Nice trick,” I said. “What about me?”
“Climb up and over. I’ll catch you.”
I gingerly placed my foot on the lowest bar and tested my weight before climbing to the top. Lowther stood below with his arms open.
Lowther waved. “Jump,” he said.
“You better catch me,” I said.
I teetered over the edge, held my breath, and jumped.
My heart skipped a few beats, and my body came to a sudden stop. Strong arms gripped me, and I was placed on my feet.
“Told you I’d catch you.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” I adjusted my shirt, tugged on my waistband. “That’s the way to the house,” I said, turning. Tree branches limped over the path as if begging to be put out of their misery.
“After you,” Lowther said.
58
I took two steps away from the gate, only two, I would swear on it, and already felt disoriented. “Lowther?” I called. “Where are you?”
I heard a bark. Shit, hadn’t thought about dogs. Course she had dogs, probably big fuckers by the sound of them. The kind that would rip you apart chunk by chunk. Hadn’t seen any last time, but that had been during the day, with Jeffrey’s car leading the way.
Her forest was like nowhere else I’d ever been, and I’d been all over the world, had seen many dark places, writing articles about the how and why of death. I’d been to Germany, visited the death camps while researching a story about SS officers. I walked into a gas chamber and stood in the room where the dead supposedly still lingered. In Japan I had visited the misty Aokigahara Forest, the resting place of over five hundred people who traveled there specifically to take their own lives.
Standing on her path, hesitant to even look inside the dark thick of trees, I had the distinct impression I wasn’t alone. My skin prickled as I felt like I was being stalked by a hundred eyes. Zombies. When we left the hotel, I had felt good about my decision to come back to the house where Caroline and her sister lived. While I stood on the path searching for Lowther, I began to wonder. What if I was crazy; what if I was caught up in the greatest game of bullshit ever? What if I was in a catatonic nightmare?
I’m not sure I would know the difference anymore.
59
“Don’t go into the deep, dark woods where the creatures and monsters are up to no good,” Lowther said.
“There you are,” I said with a sigh of relief.
“I heard barking.”
“You heard a zombie. One of them little ones. You know how purebred dogs have problems, like arthritis or tendencies toward certain diseases from all the inbreeding? Same with those little zombies. They’re messed up. Her zombies have been breeding like jack rabbits, running around wild,” Lowther said. “Nora feeds them her leftovers. If there’s not enough, they eat each other. Very effective way to control the population.”
I groaned.
“They’re hungry,” Lowther said. “I’m with you. They’ll leave us alone.”
I hugged myself tight. “It’s freezing.” My teeth began to chatter.
“It gets cold when one of them is close,” Lowther said.
A dark form moved in the tree ahead. My scalp tingled. The sensation crept down my neck, electrifying my shoulders and forearms. The chill moved simultaneously down my spine and the back of my legs.
“Is that one of them, up in the tree?” I asked.
“Don’t see them, and they’ll pretend not to see you,” Lowther said.
“What’s it doing?” I asked.
“Checking you out. You scared?” he asked with a smirk on his face.
“I
think I shit my pants.”
“Keep walking,” Lowther said.
60—Father Charles Thurmont
Immediately after Charles took the sharp curve, he passed two parked police. He was almost positive the cars sat outside her gate, but the gate was hidden behind guarri bushes and ivy.
Thirteen years ago, Lindsey and Charles had to run and dive into the sea to escape Eva. Eva had sent an earthquake after them when they tried to set fire to her grounds. Charles remembered thinking a herd of horses was galloping down the path toward them, tearing up the brush as they trampled through the forest. The only way to save them was to run into the sea.
Charles put his gear in reverse, and parked behind the police cars. He discovered another car parked farther off the road and almost into the bushes. A hybrid car. It had a sticker on the license plate marking it as a rental vehicle.
Charles peeked inside the hybrid’s window. It was littered with rubbish and a putrid scent leaked out of the cracked window. The smell made him wonder if a small animal had not found its way inside and died.
He followed a set of deep footprints up to the gate, where the footprints sunk into the ground. Dirt hung in clumps from the iron bars. It clustered at the top. Then another deep set of footprints on the other side of the gate. Apparently, the gate had been climbed by someone heavy enough to leave shoe indentations.
The book, once acquired, became heavier and heavier. After opening and reading, the book lightened; the reader became heavier as the contents went from book to person, filling the reader with demonic knowledge and power.
Whoever drove the hybrid had read her book, climbed the gate, and was on their way to her house. But why were the police there? Had they followed the driver, or were they called afterward? This conundrum added complexity to Charles’s plan. He remembered quite clearly how things had ended for Nkumbi, the police officer who had dared to step on her property—Nkumbi had been skinned and eviscerated, his body left at the entrance of her gate as a warning. Nkumbi knew what he was dealing with. He had been prepared. It didn’t matter. Charles recognized what they did not—some battles are engaged to weaken the enemy in pursuit of success.
Charles planned on fighting to his death, but the souls ahead of him had marched onto her field believing they would walk back off. He would not leave them to an insufferable end.
Her gate must open and remain open for easy exit, in case any of them were able to make their way back down. Though it was dark, moonlight shimmered through the trees.
The sea crashed on the beach below Victoria Road. He had already filled two buckets with sea water, and Charles brought them out of the car’s backseat and set them on the ground outside her gate. Charles took a deep breath, focused on the iron gate, and began his rite.
61—Mason, the Reporter
The path was narrow and trees loomed overhead. Movement shook the branches of almost every other tree. Don’t see them and they’ll pretend not to see you, Lowther had said. And yet again, Lowther was nowhere to be seen.
My hand slipped inside my pocket and touched the shape of the switchblade tucked inside. I’d forgotten about the weapon until now and wasn’t confident it would be useful. If those things in the trees were zombies, then my blade would be no good against them. Maybe I could cut off a hand, sever an arm if grabbed.
When I heard another bark, closer this time, I started jogging. From far away, the bark mimicked one of those mutts I’d come across while driving through the shanties.
I heard the angry hack again and the force behind it, loaded with intention. Didn’t really sound like a dog.
It dawned on me that those weren't dogs barking. Fuckin zombies.
The neighboring treetop shifted, and I shrunk to the ground, trying to blend in. I sensed someone hiding behind the tree. Head and shoulders peeked around the trunk. I wondered if I was visible in the moonlight as I lay on the ground. I argued with myself as to what to do—remain still; no, run.
The figure fully emerged from behind the tree and crept like a shadow floating through the woods. If it was Caroline, then I might be safe, but the figure was tall and muscular. He inched closer, and I saw he was dressed in black, shoed in dark boots, wearing a skull cap. This was no zombie. The man looked like a military maneuver, creeping closer in a synchronized manner. He stood directly above me, stopped, and reached out to me. It took a couple seconds for me to realize he had a gun aimed at me.
62
“The fuck? McPhee?”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“It’s me, Mason.” The two of us spoke above a whisper.
“Mason?” He stepped closer, and leaned down. “I barely recognized you.”
“Yeah,” I said “It is kinda hard to see in the dark.”
“You’re after the book, aren’t you?” He pointed the gun at my head. “You trying to double-cross me?”
“No, no! You were taking too long,” I said, edging out from the gun’s direct aim. “I thought you might have changed your mind.”
A bark echoed off the mountain in the distance.
“I’ll shoot that damn dog,” McPhee said, turning his gun toward the tree tops.
“It’s not a dog,” I said, moving to my knees. “It’s a zombie.”
“I’d scoff, but it’s not possible, not here.” He licked his lips and swallowed. “Do you feel that in the air? It’s heavy and wet. It’s up my nose and in my eyes. I can hardly breathe.”
I stood and withdrew my knife. “This might help, but it won’t kill one of them.” I rehashed my zombie lesson from Lowther in a few quick sentences.
“And you came here?” McPhee asked. “Unafraid?”
“It’s not like I came alone.”
“Oh?” McPhee scanned the forest. “I don’t see anyone with you.”
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“Same reason you are,” McPhee said, his gun trained on me again. “I want the book.”
“You’re going to shoot me? Or is it Jeffrey you’re gunning for?”
“I don’t like Jeffrey,” McPhee said through clenched teeth. “He threatened my family.”
“He made you afraid just by looking at him, didn’t he?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, emphatically. “I brought a gun and you brought a knife. I don’t think there’s much difference between our intentions.”
“Okay. I’ll put away my knife if you stop pointing your gun at me. We’ll walk up the path together.”
“Where, exactly, does this path lead?” McPhee asked.
“To the house. Jeffrey said he lives with her, the author of the book.”
“I thought the author was dead.”
“Well, she remains to be seen. That’s another reason why I’m here.”
“Fine,” McPhee said, finger off the trigger, gun lowered to his side. “Let’s go. You lead.”
“I’ll lead, but if you’re keeping your gun out, I’m keeping my knife out. Jeffrey is probably here, somewhere. Did anyone see you climb the gate?”
“No,” McPhee said. “I parked below Victoria Road, on the beach, then took the walkway up to Victoria Road and crossed the street to her gate. I don’t want my car seen here.”
“Smart,” I said. “Wish I’d thought to do that.”
I took the first step up the path. McPhee walked along beside me.
“How’d you find this place?” I asked.
“I followed Jeffrey home from his office,” he replied. “The gate was hard to find once his car drove through, but there were footprints leading through the bushes. When I saw you climb the gate, I followed.”
“So, what’s your plan?” I asked. “I assume you have one.”
“I was going to knock on the door and shoot whoever answers,” McPhee said. “Ransack the house. Take the book.”
“I figured a guy like you would’ve hired someone else.”
“I tried. No one would take the job.”
“Aren’t you worried about security?”
“I already decided what I would do if the police arrived. I’d say Jeffrey invited me to dinner.”
“You don’t look like you’re dressed for dinner,” I said.
“We’re being watched,” McPhee mouthed, eyes darting. He raised his gun.
The tree thumped overhead. From above, I heard my name.
A figure crouched on the bottom branch. I gasped. The figure leapt to the ground, landing in front of me. I heard McPhee’s feet shuffle, saw him stumble backward.
“Caroline?” Her gray face was full of menace. I hoped she would recognize me. Our last conversation wasn’t exactly friendly, but I hadn’t felt threatened by her.
I was astonished at how much further she had decayed. Snot crusted under her nose, film clouded her green eyes. Her flaky lips shriveled, curling around exposed gums and long teeth.
Confusion spread across her face. “Remember me?” I asked, stepping back and bumping into McPhee. “Mason, the reporter.”
Her memory was probably deteriorating with the rest of her. It became clear she was no longer the resource I had first used.
McPhee aimed his gun at her.
63—William McPhee
“Who the fuck is this?” William asked Mason, gesturing at the ugly, rotten-looking woman with his gun. He was waiting for her to take a step in his direction so he could shoot her wobbling head off her shoulders. Mason had told him this was the author’s house, and the author’s name was not Caroline.
The hideous creature regarded William with crazy, unblinking eyes.
“This is Caroline, Eva's sister,” Mason answered, motioning for William to put his gun down, which he was not about to do.
“What's wrong with her?” William asked.
“She’s a zombie.”
Zombies. In Llandudno.
The Bookseller's Secret Page 14
