by Michael Rigg
But no, Jefferson Landry's deep-as-the-ocean selfishness withheld that from his youngest son. Or, Bryce admitted to himself, he didn't want his youngest son to tip their hand. He was kept in the dark so his features would be stalwart and stoney across from the twitching conniving mustache of Bradford Thorne. His father wasn't ignorant when it came to matters like this. If he had a reason to keep Bryce in the dark, it was forged from necessity.
Jefferson said, "What did it tell you?"
Bryce offered a serious smile. He considered withholding information from his father—give him a taste of his own medicine, but that wasn't within Bryce's upbringing, and they were beyond such deception now that the total truth was known. "The doors to Atlantis are locked to anyone who doesn't have a key." He started to back away from his father with a slight jerk of his head to indicate they should talk on their way to the aerocar. "Bradford Thorne isn't getting into Atlantis without it, but if we get it first we'll have a new bargaining chip."
Jefferson's lip twitched and an eyebrow followed suit. "I never saw a key."
Bryce turned and slapped the pad against his father's chest before turning and hurrying to the door. Jefferson stopped and looked at the pad. On it was a sketch of three circles in a horizontal row joined by a line. Beneath it was scrawled, THE KEY TO ATLANTIS!!!
Jefferson huffed and moved to catch up to his son. "Bryce, do you know what these symbols are?"
Bryce stopped in the outer foyer and waited for his father. The foyer was lined with bronze plaques of the Hall of Thinking Machine's builders. He took back the pad as his father reached him. "I don't, Daddy, but there's someone I left back in Philly who might."
His father blushed with pride and clapped his son on the shoulder. "I'm glad to see you've come 'round and are ready to take back what's ours."
“Not ours, Daddy, the world's.”
Jefferson scowled as he followed Bryce out into the blazing sunlight. “Ours by right!”
“You can't claim everything, Lord Landry. I'm afraid this—” he pointed to the sketch pad, “—is bigger than both of us, and by us I mean Landry Holdings and Thorne & Wolfe.”
Bryce's thoughts flew to Alice as he turned, and he felt a pang in his chest as he remembered glancing at her from the porch, the expression of hurt and shock on her face. He found himself missing her smile, her frown, the needful yearning in her lost green eyes.
The Landrys left the Hall of Thinking Machines, rushing past the old tarnished plaque of the Hall's founder, a black man with an intense look to his eyes even in bronze. The name under the plaque: DR. RAYMOND SIMCOE - Founder, 1863.
~~~~~~~
Bradford Thorne was a ruined man.
He sat slumped and defeated in one of the ornately-carved conference table chairs, his weary eyes watching as Emergency Services eased his partner's corpse onto a gurney and covered it with a sheet. Thorne's eyes remained on the red fan of sticky blood on the back of Nigel Wolfe's corporate seat.
"I assume you have an Ident, Mr. Thorne."
Thorne barely acknowledged the investigator and tugged up the sleeve of his shirt to show the man his tattoo. Nearby, another agent in a black suit pawed through the contents of Thorne's suit jacket before sloppily tossing it over the back of another chair. He then moved to look through the pockets of the other corpse sprawled out to the left of Thorne while two women from Emergency Services stood by waiting to load Perek Grubbs onto a gurney.
The air in the room was stale and lit by lanterns and the periodic crack-flash of cameras since the investigators closed the blinds. The now dark conference center of Thorne & Wolfe smelled of released body contents, lamp oil and the leather of police gun belts.
The investigator standing before Thorne was a barrel-chested New Yorker with a thick bushy mustache and a soul patch under his puffy lips. The name on the tag below his badge read HAYDEN. The badge was hung from a silver chain around the man's neck and flashed from the front of his black suit. Hayden's dark eyes continually swept Thorne as if looking for clues or evidence in every fold of the man's expensive suit.
Hayden turned and pointed with the eraser of his pencil toward the corpse on the floor. "You say that man worked for you previously?"
Thorne nodded slowly.
"I can't hear you sir."
"Yes."
Hayden scribbled on his investigator's pad. "His name?"
Thorne turned and stared at the unmoving body, expecting—no, willing—him to sit up and speak for himself as Thorne knew he could. His brain was still in shock, but he knew that some form of witchcraft had been involved here today, some simple plan had been enacted to bring one of the largest corporations in the Empire to ruin.
"Mr. Thorne, his name?"
Bradford Thorne glanced at the plain clothes cop before re-focusing on his own trembling hands. "Grubbs, inspector. Perek Grubbs."
"Spell that."
"T-H-A-T," Thorne glared.
The inspector simply glared in return, shook his head, and scribbled Grubbs' name phonetically on his pad.
"Now, you say..." Hayden stopped and pointed to Grubbs' body again with the pencil before pointing back to Thorne. "You say that man died, then rose again like Lazarus, and shot Mr. Wolfe?"
Thorne knew how ridiculous it sounded, but clinging to the truth might at least buy him a plea of insanity. Any investigation worth the money that financed it would see that Bradford and Nigel never had public differences and that Thorne had nothing to gain by murdering his partner. Sure, no one would believe his reanimated corpse story, except for a few, maybe, but there would be no other answer.
Thorne nodded slightly. His handlebar mustache puckered as he met Hayden's eyes and repeated, "I shot Mr. Grubbs in the neck. He then stood, took my gun from the table, and shot Mr. Wolfe."
"Then he simply fell down dead?" Hayden smirked, “The second time you killed him.”
“I only killed him once, inspector,” Thorne smirked back. “Haven't you heard there are witches about?”
“Thanks to corporations like yours,” the inspector shot back. Thorne's lips formed a tight line. There was no way he'd find a defense in the bed of his own nation's guilt.
Thorne nodded and pointed with a shaky finger. "Right where he is. Dead as dead anyway."
Hayden nodded to the body. "Was he already wearing the leather gloves, or did you put those on him to cover up the fingerprint story?"
"Fingerprint—?"
"I'm sure we'll only find your prints on your weapon, Mr. Thorne. Rather convenient that a man in a black velvet suit would be wearing leather gloves, and rise from the dead to kill your partner."
There was nothing Thorne could say. He simply stared at the inspector and blinked. He could feel his already pasty skin grow more pale as fury and fear battled it out for the supremacy of his beating heart.
Hayden sighed. He tucked the pad and pencil into a pocket and reached for the clanking bracelets on a belt loop. "Bradford Albert Thorne, you have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up that right, I have the right to declare you for non-trial and render judgment. Should you wish to be represented in a Court of Imperial Affairs, but cannot—"
A loud thumping crash made Thorne start and gasp. His eyes darted to the Emergency Services team carrying the stretcher with Wolfe's body. They dropped the heavy cargo and both the body and gurney had crashed to the floor. "My God!" Thorne jumped to his feet. "Give the man resp—"
He couldn't finish the outburst because the entire room died. Thorne, now standing before Hayden, panned the room with wide eyes. Wolfe's E.S. team was standing, facing the door, their faces frozen with the effort they had been exerting to lift the dead weight of Nigel Wolfe. The uniformed cop by the conference table stood frozen with the camel-hair brush
poised over the fingerprint powder sprinkled on the handle of Thorne's revolver. The inspector who had been checking Grubbs' pockets was frozen in a half-crouch, locked in place half-way between a crouch and a stand. The Emergency Services team standing by Grubbs were also frozen in place, one of the women leaning toward her partner, her mouth frozen open, her finger pointing at Grubbs, a statue of one whispering to the other. Then Thorne's eyes fell on Hayden. The inspector wasn't looking at him. His eyes were focused on where Bradford Thorne was, the chair, his hands hovering in front of him with the handcuffs pulled open. It was so quiet his ears were ringing.
It's as though the entire conference room had been captured in a living sculpture, all stopped and locked in time leaving Thorne behind.
His attention was drawn to the wide double-doors as they creaked and opened silently on their own.
Simultaneously, and in perfect synchronization, every living person in the room stood and turned toward the door. The police, the E.S. teams, Hayden and his partner. All without saying a word, they turned toward the doors and casually walked out.
The only sound was a dry laugh coming from Perek Grubbs' now breathing corpse.
Wide-eyed, Thorne screamed and backed against the sideboard between two of the mural-shaded windows. His high-pitched scream caused Grubbs to laugh even harder where he lay.
Once the room was cleared of the living, a man stepped through the doors and entered the room.
He wore a black velvet suit similar to the one Grubbs wore, but with more silver adornments. A silver watch chain, ascot and light gray gloves. A black velvet top hat sat on his head with a curtained veil drawn over his face. Stitched into the thick velvet face curtain were two round black lenses, rimmed with silver. The only part of the man Thorne could see was the long black hair beneath the top hat that tangled down to the black cape draped over the man's shoulders. He walked with a shining black walking stick with a silver dragon's head for its top.
Thorne's screams stopped in his throat as he watched the man slowly enter the room, the doors slowly draw closed behind him as if by—
"M-Magic," Thorne stammered.
Grubbs continued to lay on the floor laughing at the ceiling.
The black velvet man stepped around the end of the table and approached Thorne, stopping when he came to Perek Grubbs.
"You know," came a deep voice behind the velvet veil, hissing despite its depth, like warm cream about to turn, "The reanimated can be so entertaining... so useful..."
As Thorne watched, the stranger held up his cane and thumbed a hidden switch. A six-inch blade of crystal, like the glass tip of a spear, projected from the end of the cane with a SHICK! Thorne jumped at the unexpected appearance of the weapon.
"The only problem," the man continued over Grubbs' laughter, "Is they can only be dispatched from service with the application of glass to the brain."
Perek Grubbs stopped laughing. His face slackened and he looked up at the blade poised over him, "My lord?"
The man balanced the crystal point on Grubbs' forehead and leaned on the cane.
Thorne gasped, his hand covered his mouth and he looked away as his legs trembled and gave out from beneath him. He stumbled back along the sideboard and crumbled to the floor, groaning to cancel out the crackling sound of the glass spike penetrating Perek Grubbs' skull. He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, muttering, "No... No, the frustration builds. No... This is not possible."
The voice was directly over him. "It is possible, Brad."
Thorne gasped and looked up. The black velvet man was suddenly standing before him. The cane was gone. Thorne glanced and saw it protruding from Grubb's forehead; Perek Grubbs who—according to the stranger's explanation—would now be very much deceased this time.
"Stand up," the man said, and turned to walk toward the twin thrones. "The head of a corporate empire should not grovel on the plush carpet of industry."
Thorne's mouth moved but no sound came out as he watched the stranger glide toward the tall chairs, the black cape swirling around the man's tall black boots, and stopping before Nigel Wolfe's wide throne.
Using the shuttered window as support, Thorne pulled himself to his feet and stared as the man removed a glove from a long-fingered gray hand, plucked a small sticky pink chunk of something from the back of Wolfe's throne, and lifted it below the black veil. Thorne cringed and covered his mouth as he heard the man's lips smacking around the morsel of what must have been part of Wolfe's brain.
"Corporate takeover is so delicious, don't you think, Brad—Oh, how rude of me. May I call you Brad? Or do you prefer Bradford?"
Thorne's lip quivered. All he could manage was, "W-Who?"
"Forgive me." The man removed his top hat and veil, revealing the gaunt gray face of a ghoul with piercing red eyes. "The name is Hearse. Teivel Hearse."
Thornes' eyes grew wide. If he could press himself further into the shuttered window behind him, he would. "G-Ghoul," he stammered.
Hearse sneered. "Such a nasty word." He waved a hand dismissively as he sat in Wolfe's throne. "Don't use it again."
For a few moments, Thorne took in the scene, his brilliant corporate mind assessing the avenues, the gains and losses, the possibilities, the projections. He saw Grubbs, dead with a cane in his forehead; he saw the double doors closed, the police and Emergency Services gone—and, he presumed, forgotten; and he saw a regal-looking ghoul sitting in his partner's throne. Gradually, Bradford Thorne's quivering silenced. He stood tall and straightened his tie.
Hearse arched an eyebrow and watched him.
Thorne ran his hands along his shirt sleeves, the front of his vest, brushed off his shoulders, stretched his neck within his collar and gave his handlebar mustache a twist before clearing his throat.
Hearse smiled slyly.
Thorne's voice had returned with some command in it. "Teivel Hearse," he said, his chin pointed up.
"At your service, Bradford," the ghoul smiled showing small pointed teeth stained with the blood of Wolfe's brain. "But call me Teivel."
Thorne took a step closer. Another.
Hearse reached over and patted the seat of the throne next to him. "Come... Take your proper place. There will be no arrest today, and no thanks necessary."
Bradford Thorne swallowed with a gulp and approached the seat. He sat on it, as far left and away from the ghoul as he could. He turned to him. "What do you want?"
"Partnership."
Thorne's forehead wrinkled. He started to say something but Hearse continued.
"I'm sure there's something in your marketing budget to cover the name change. Thorne & Hearse. It has a good ring, don't you think?"
Again, Thorne started to speak and again Hearse cut him off.
"I met your delicious former employee, Mr. Grubbs, in Philadelphia. He was most cooperative and very ambitious. I simply had to meet the man behind the guile of this underling."
Thorne frowned but said nothing. Instead, an eyebrow raised. His attention usually gravitated toward one thing: praise.
“I had to meet the individual capable of such plotting, such brilliance, such foresight.” Hearse pulled his glove back on before turning to Thorne directly with his piercing red eyes. "I know you have Atlantis now. I'm here to help you keep it."
Thorne laughed through his nose, a single puff of incredulous air as his handlebar mustache curled up on one side. "Keep it? What makes you think I need your assistance to keep it?"
Hearse raised an eyebrow to encourage Thorne to continue.
"I-I've already made plans with the Imperial Navy. The property is well secured. There's..." He let it trail off as Hearse closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. "What? What could you possibly know?"
Hearse o
pened his eyes and leaned in close to Thorne. He whispered, "I know that you don't have the key."
"Key?"
"Did you really expect to dock a submersible to the city and just walk in with your Imperial Guard?"
Thorne nodded, but only slightly.
"You can't open a door without a key."
"W-We'll blast it open then. A torpedo—"
"Would destroy the delicate works of art within, and possibly aggravate the generators of a thousand years of pent up energy." Hearse pressed his palms together, then spread them out in an arch as he made a 'poof' noise with his tight pale lips. “All gone.”
That struck home with Bradford Thorne whose mind was now captivated by the possible treasures to be found within the walls of Atlantis in addition to the power he presumed was there. He chewed his lower lip, glanced at the artifacts around his conference room. "How then?"
"That is why I'm here, Bradford."
Thorne looked at him.
"That is why we're partners."
"Thorne and Hearse," Bradford Thorne frowned. It was both a question and a statement.
"Thorne and Hearse, rulers of the Earth."
Thorne continued to stare, his forehead showing frustration but his beady eyes curious. "Rulers..."
"But first we must obtain this key." Hearse clapped his knees with an exclamation and stood. He stepped down from the throne and turned to face his partner. "Once we acquire the key, we take Atlantis."
"Where is this key, Teivel?"
Hearse smiled. "I am not sure... but I have an idea who knows."
Thorne scowled as he pondered this, then his face opened up and blushed with anger. "Landry! Of course! That bastard knew all along that I couldn't simply walk in, and that's why the shooting hasn't started! He has the damn key!"
Hearse offered a smirk, then his expression turned nonchalant. He glanced to Wolfe's body strewn on the floor. "I'm famished after my travels." He pointed to the corpse. "Will you be joining me or excusing me for a moment?"
