by Ty Drago
“Yeah, well, that I can fix.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out the narrow square of leather. “’Cept it ain’t a wallet.”
And it wasn’t.
My father used to call them “badge folds.” One half might hold a silver badge, and the other displayed an official-looking identification card. When he’d made detective, he had gotten one just like it.
Except this ID card didn’t come from the Philadelphia Police Department.
Instead, it read:
Special Agent Hugo Ramirez
Federal Bureau of Investigation
“Sorry, bro,” Tom said to me. “But I think the party’s over. We’ve got work to do.”
Chapter 7
Message in a Bottle
The doorbell rang at 8:30 in the morning on Will’s thirteenth birthday.
Susan Ritter, Will’s mother, had been hurriedly dressing for work. It was Friday, so her daughter, Emily, the only remaining member of Susan’s once whole and happy family, would soon be heading to school. Because kindergarten is only half a day, around one o’clock, she’d have to take the bus to her aunt’s house. There, Susan’s sister, Angela, would watch the little girl while her mother finished her nursing shift at Philadelphia’s Jefferson Hospital.
It was an arrangement Emily didn’t like. Angela, though a sweetheart, was single, childless, and not very good with kids. Unfortunately, without Will around, Susan had no choice. She had a dead husband and a missing son, but the bills still needed to be paid.
At the sound of the doorbell, she uttered a low curse and marched downstairs with her hairbrush still in hand. Emily, she noticed, hadn’t even looked up from her breakfast. The five-year-old had become increasingly detached these last few months—from her mother, from her kindergarten, from the world as a whole.
It was her way of coping with all the loss she’d suffered in her young life.
Susan worried about her.
In fact, “worry” was just about the only feeling Susan had left.
She opened the door.
A grim-faced man regarded her from the stoop. He was dressed in a tailored suit and wool overcoat. “Ms. Susan Ritter?”
“Yes?”
“Ms. Ritter. My name is Edward Scanlon. I’m an attorney at law. Is your son, William Karl Ritter, at home?”
Susan blinked. “Will? Why?”
“It’s a bit difficult to explain, Ms. Ritter. May I come in?”
“Let’s see some ID,” Susan said.
The man produced a business card bearing his name and declaring his partnership in a Center City law firm she’d never heard of. Susan frowned. “Let me see your driver’s license.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m a policeman’s wife, Mr. Scanlon. Anyone can print up a business card. Let me see your license.”
He looked a little put out, but he reached into the back pocket of his trousers for a wallet and then fished out a Pennsylvania driver’s license complete with picture. Susan examined it. “Okay,” she said finally. “Come in. But I only have a few minutes. I need to get my daughter to school and me to work.”
“I understand,” Scanlon replied, stepping inside the Ritters’ small row home in the Manayunk section of the city. “My condolences on your loss, by the way.”
Susan glared at the man, thinking he was referring to Will—who was definitely not dead and thus didn’t need “condolences.” After a moment, however, the lawyer cleared his throat and added, “For your husband, Detective Ritter. A good man.”
“Yes, he was,” Susan replied, softening. “It’s been more than two years now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. Did you know my husband?”
The man nodded. “Briefly. A few months before he was…before he died, he hired my firm to keep something for him. A package.”
“What kind of package?” Susan asked.
“We’ve never opened it. Your husband was very explicit about that. The package was to be locked away somewhere secure and then delivered to this address on the occasion of his son’s…your son’s…thirteenth birthday. Which is today, I believe?”
Susan nodded, trying to make sense of this. “My husband gave you something to give to me when Will turned thirteen?”
“No, Ms. Ritter. Not you. The package is addressed to William. Is he here?”
“No, he isn’t,” she replied. Then after a long pause, she sighed and added, “My son disappeared four months ago. The police have classified him as a runaway.”
Scanlon processed this. “I see. And the authorities have been unable to find him?”
Susan thought this a strange question. After all, if they had found Will, he’d be here, wouldn’t he? But people, she knew, leaned toward awkward, even stupid comments when confronted with someone else’s tragedy. As she’d learned after first Karl’s death and now Will’s disappearance, it was a quirk of human nature to trip over your tongue when offering comfort to someone who can’t really be comforted.
It was tiring sometimes—but Susan could forgive it.
She shook her head. “No, they haven’t found him.”
The lawyer shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that. Well, then, as you are William’s parent and legal guardian, I’m within my rights to deliver the package to you.”
Scanlon reached into his briefcase and withdrew a small brown envelope. It was square, about eight inches to a side, and there were words on the face of it, written using a heavy felt-tip pen. They had clearly been written by Karl’s hand; Susan would have recognized his handwriting anywhere.
To My Son, Will:
Happy Birthday
Dad
Susan turned it over in hands that had suddenly started to tremble.
What is this?
“Sign here, please?”
She looked up. “What?”
Scanlon was holding a sheet of paper. “I need you to sign this form confirming receipt.”
“Oh.” She took the paper and signed with his proffered pen. Then she accepted the envelope. It was very light. “And you say you don’t know what’s in it?”
“No, Ms. Ritter. My firm’s duties on your late husband’s behalf are now concluded. On a personal note, may I say that I liked Detective Ritter, and I’m sure he had his reasons for wrapping this business in such mystery.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Susan showed the man to the door and watched him walk purposefully down the stoop toward the street. At the last moment, however, he looked back. “Ms. Ritter?”
“Yes?”
“I hope you find your son.”
She managed the very barest of smiles. “Thanks.” Then she shut the door.
“Who was that, Mommy?” Emily asked from the living room.
“Nobody, sweetheart. Are you ready to for school?”
“Do I have to go to Aunt Angie’s after?”
“You know Mommy has to work, Em.”
“I know.” Then after a pause, “Mommy?”
“What, sweetie?”
“Is everything ever going to go back to the way it was?”
Susan stood motionless at her front door. “I don’t know, Em,” she said. Then she held up the package, looking again at her husband’s handwriting.
Karl…I miss you.
“Em…I’m going to go upstairs and finish getting ready. You eat your cereal, and we’ll leave in a few minutes, okay?”
“Okay, Mommy.”
Susan went to her room, closed the door, and used nail scissors to tear open the package. Turning it over, she let out a little gasp when an unmarked DVD dropped onto her bed. For several seconds, she stared at it. Then, moving as if in a fog, she picked it up and inserted it into the play
er mounted atop her small television. It was the first time that either the TV or DVD player had been used in longer than she could remember.
At first, there was just static—and then Karl’s face filled the screen.
Susan felt her throat close up.
Her first thought, crazy as it might be, was: My God! He looks so much like Will!
The resemblance had always been there: the same red hair, the same freckles. But in the two years since Karl’s death, Will had grown taller, his face thinner. Even the pictures of Karl that she had around the house didn’t quite capture—
“Hello, Will.”
Susan put a hand to her mouth.
“I’ve arranged for this DVD to reach you when you turn thirteen. That fact that you’re getting it means that something has happened to me. I’m sorry for that—more sorry than I can ever say.
“Will, by now, I’m guessing you’ve started…seeing things. I don’t know who it will be. A neighbor. A teacher. Maybe you’re a late bloomer and don’t even know what I’m talking about, but something tells me that isn’t the case. You’re my son, and I’m the only adult who’s ever had the Sight. That’s what we call it. Capital ‘S.’”
Susan wiped the tears from her eyes and stared at her husband’s face. He looked earnest, even a little desperate, leaning in close to the camera. He was sitting—my God—he was sitting right where she was now on this very bed. The camcorder had probably been set up on the dresser.
What had she been doing when he’d filmed this?
And what in God’s name was he talking about?
“Son, if none of this has happened yet…it will. Just put this DVD away, hide it from everyone, even your mom. Then you can pull it out again when you need it. But if it has happened and if you’re Seeing them, then you’re probably scared to death. I don’t blame you. I was scared too the first time. Then, later, when I found out more about what they were and what they wanted and how the ability to See them was given to only a few seemingly random kids…well, that scared me even more.
“And I knew I had to make this recording.
“Son, you’re not crazy, and you’re not alone. The important thing now is not to tell your mom or anyone else what you’ve Seen. She won’t believe you. I’m sorry to say it, kiddo, but it’s true. She’ll love you and try to get you help, but that will only alert them, and then they’ll find you and your mom and your sister, and they’ll…”
Karl visibly swallowed, and for the first time, Susan read the fear in her dead husband’s eyes.
“We’re at war, Will. Most of the world doesn’t know it, but we are. I have no idea where they come from or how they do…what they do. But I know what they want. First the city. Then the state. Then the country. And then the world. They’re careful, and they’re taking their time, but in the end, they’ll be the death of us all.
“You need to go into Center City. I wish I could tell you exactly where, but I can’t risk this DVD getting into the wrong hands. You’ll have to ask around. But don’t go to the police. Don’t go to any city officials. Ask if anyone’s heard of the Undertakers. Remember that name: the Undertakers. Ask every kid you see…on the street, in the stores. Don’t worry if you don’t find them right away. Believe me, son, they’ll find you. And they’ll help you.
“Making this recording is like putting a message in a bottle. I have no idea if it’ll end up in the right hands. If it does, then remember that I love you.
“I guess I don’t have much else I can say. I’m beginning to think this whole idea was a long shot at best. But I’ll go through with it. It’s the only way I’ll be able to sleep at night, the only way I’ll be able to face Sue, knowing what I know and knowing I can’t tell her.
“Will…good luck. I love you.”
The DVD ended.
Susan sat on her bed, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles went white. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
A war? Invaders bent on world conquest? My God…was Karl unbalanced? Maybe even insane?
Susan went to her bedside table and pulled out the familiar white envelope. Though she’d read it a thousand times, all but memorized it, she read it once again—and once again struggled to make sense of what it said.
Will was alive and had “friends.” There were “scary things” happening, and he had to “fight” them.
The letter had arrived, without a return address or even a postmark, a few weeks after Will’s disappearance. Susan had shown it to no one, afraid that her sister or the police would dismiss it as a heartless prank, thereby bursting the bubble of hope she managed to build around it. But now, she had the DVD too. And Karl’s words, while vague and deeply unsettling, seemed to support the letter’s contents.
But what did any of it mean? What were these “things” that Will might or might not have started seeing? Teachers? Neighbors? It sounded like a crazy conspiracy theory. Had Karl been telling their son to run away from home?
It was unthinkable!
The Undertakers.
She’d heard of them—a gang that had been somehow associated with the death of television anchorman Kenny Booth last year. Booth himself had mentioned the name just before he’d died on camera. The papers had run with the story for a while—and why not? Nobody could even explain exactly what had happened to the telejournalist and mayoral candidate. He’d just exploded on live TV.
But in the end, the whole thing had sort of faded away. Nobody knew who the Undertakers were or if they even existed.
All that had happened about a month after Will had gone missing.
Scary things. Invaders.
Friends. Undertakers.
My God…
For months now, years if you counted from Karl’s death, Susan had been fighting to stay afloat amid a flood of disasters and heartbreak. Well, her husband was forever gone, but Will was still out there. Maybe it was time to stop wallowing and feeling sorry for herself.
Maybe it was time to take some action.
Maybe, she thought, it’s time to find my son.
Chapter 8
Battle Plans
“Eastern State Penitentiary,” Tom explained, “has been closed to the public for three months. This came down from the Community Affairs Office ’round the same time she showed up. Now…since Sharyn and me know some of you ain’t as up to speed on her as the rest, I’m gonna take a minute to review.”
The entire Angels complement had gathered in the rec room, occupying a loose assortment of folding chairs that were the furniture of choice in Haven. One of the Hackers, the Undertakers’ answer to the Geek Squad, had hooked a laptop computer to an old twenty-five-inch TV. The girl was now displaying a slide show of sorts that her crew had hastily put together at Tom’s request.
The screen showed the prison frontage, with the big gate where Helene and I had gone Deader-fighting clearly visible. As we watched, this image changed to that of a woman’s face, a Dead woman’s face. A Type One—very fresh. The hair was mostly still there, though the skin had gone purple with clotted blood and her lips had begun to thin and pull back from her teeth. She didn’t even look embalmed, a process the Corpses often used to help their stolen bodies last a bit longer.
“Lilith Cavanaugh,” Tom said. “Philly’s new director of community affairs. If you read her creds, she sounds pretty cool: got most of her schooling in Europe; spent the last five years doing public relations for Euro Disney. She even speaks with an English accent. To be honest, it’s the best job the Corpses have ever done at setting up a backstory for one of their own. She showed up a little over a month after Kenny Booth died on live TV—”
A few feet away, Sharyn chimed, “Pop goes the weasel.”
Everybody laughed. Yeah, it’s a pretty stupid joke. But if you’d known the guy, you’d have appreciated the humor.
Tom
pressed on. “Cavanaugh has wasted no time taking over where Booth left off. She’s already got the police and most major city departments in her back pocket. Officially, she answers only to the mayor’s office. Unofficially, I figure she’s got the new mayor either completely charmed or completely scared. Either way, he and the city council let her do pretty much whatever she wants.
“More’n once, we’ve heard Cavanaugh referred to by Deaders as ‘Majesty’ or ‘the Queen.’ As we figure it, Booth’s failure has convinced the Corpses…Malum, as they call themselves…to send in the ‘big gun.’ A member of the Corpse royal family maybe. But whoever she is in her world, in ours she’s the new boss of the invasion.”
I looked at the face on the screen, with its slack skin and bloating features. Then I did what I figured the others were doing and crossed my eyes. The Mask trick also worked on photographs—better, actually, because a photo didn’t move. Instantly, a second face materialized over the first, kind of floating atop it. It showed a woman in her late thirties, with long blond hair and a movie-star face. While her real smile was grotesque, this one was dazzling, all white teeth and red lips.
The Chief said, “Cavanaugh makes a lot of public appearances, opening shopping centers, visiting schools, stuff like that. In just a few months, she’s become respected and well liked. Some folks are already seeing the mayor’s office in her future.”
I had to force my eyes to relax. The image of the Queen’s Mask was eerily captivating. No wonder she’d taken the city by storm.
Tom continued, “She’s better organized and…in my opinion…a bit smarter than Booth was. She’s already expanded Corpse influence throughout the city. She’s also the one who closed Eastern State to tourists. We don’t know why, but from Will and Helene’s recon last night, it looks like she may be turning it back into a prison. Which brings us to our current situation.”
He nodded to the Hacker, and the screen changed again, this time showing the wallet ID photo of Hugo Ramirez, special agent for the FBI. Ramirez had a square face, short-cropped black hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, and heavy-lidded brown eyes. He wasn’t smiling.
