"Moss, you are a fugitive from the law, an escaped convict. It's one thing to play dress-up here, but if you're spotted coming and going around the family home, someone could identify you. It's an obvious place for the police to watch."
"I'll take the risk. Besides, I look so different. Who's going to make a connection with my past?"
"Well, if the Luna moths are a setup, presumably someone already has. You might be walking into a trap."
"Which is exactly why I need your help." He felt guilty withholding information from Irridis, but falling into Lamb's snare had been stupid. Being drugged and tattooed had been fucking humiliating. He was not ready to share, not yet. "I just need to do this. Will you help me?"
"It strikes me as a big assumption to think that random things you've observed are signs she's left for you."
"It's the kind of thing she'd do," said Moss, with conviction. "She had a taste for puzzles."
"Your urgency will put you in danger," said Irridis.
"What?" asked Moss, a little sharper than he had intended.
"Trying to find someone in this city, who may want to remain hidden, means making enquiries. That kind of behavior is going to expose you eventually. If the wrong person makes a connection, you'll be sold out and arrested in no time. I advise you to leave it alone."
"No. She left me signs, Irridis."
"Signs." Irridis waved his hand. "How much of that brandy have you had, Moss?"
"She's out there. How can I ignore that? I have to do what I can."
"Because you're to blame for her falling into the ocean?"
"I hated the way she was being used, but what I did that day was stupid." Moss paused and rubbed his eyes, as though that could erase the image of Memoria falling.
Irridis paced the carpet. The ocelli moved around the room in an agitated manner. Moss knew that Irridis could experience and process multiple sensory inputs from each stone. He could not begin to imagine what a cacophony the man's consciousness must be.
"Here are my terms," said Irridis finally.
"Name them."
"You stop the game you're playing here, for one."
"Done."
"And you leave this house immediately."
"That was a given anyway."
"There is a house in Hellbender Fields. An old friend, a shipwright, owns it. I make use of it sometimes. You can hole up there while we figure this out."
Moss nodded. "Those are your terms?"
"For now. You look awful. Haven't you slept?"
Moss fell back into the couch without answering. Dust sparkled around him. Irridis continued. "The man who owns the house is aboard his ship the Somnambulist and isn't expected to dock for another seven weeks. You will have complete privacy. You can stay in the house without fear of discovery. There's a key under an urn at the back door. Don't expect to be comfortable, though. He's a man of simple tastes."
"Is that a crack?" Moss smiled. "Thank you, my friend."
Irridis ignored the question. "I went by the house a couple of hours ago to check on it. It's sitting empty. Even the neighbors seem to be away."
"It'll be worth it just to be shut of Morel. He's been banging on the door already this morning. Probably found an earwig in his bed or some similar crisis."
"Morel?"
Moss rolled his eyes. "The building manager. The man's a nightmare."
Irridis walked to the window. "The air is stale in here." He turned and leaned against the radiator in front of the window. The ocelli had relaxed and now drifted around the room like bumblebees in search of pollen. Moss swatted at one that had begun nosing at his pocket. "How are you going to extricate yourself from this—grandeur?"
"I'll submit my notice by letter. I'll say that I have been called home for family reasons. I don't want to do anything too sudden and risk Morel smelling a rat. When Seaforth returns, it will be an annoying dereliction, nothing more. By that time, I'll be long gone to your shipwright's house."
"Was it worth the effort?" asked Irridis.
"I promised Franklin Box that I would get his book back. I found it, too, in the Museum of Natural History. It's over there in my bag."
"That's it? A book?"
Moss shook his head. "I wanted to show Seaforth that his shell has a soft spot, that he is as vulnerable as anyone. I wanted him to feel violated. One day he'll figure out what I've done." Moss glared. "I wanted to punish him for sending me away and ruining my damned life."
Irridis nodded, a familiar flicker of a smile in the corners of his mouth. "Well played, Moss, well played."
They exploded in laughter. When it had drifted off, sounds of the city welled up from the street. Irridis flicked an ant off his sleeve.
"I need to sleep before I help you fix your life," Irridis said. Moss nodded, grinning and closing his eyes. Irridis took off his coat and laid it over the high-backed chair that Andrew had vacated. He moved the empty milk bottle to the table. "It's not a good idea to feed strays."
Moss stretched out on the couch and pulled his sleeve over the tattoo. The sinispore bottle dug into his leg. Irridis closed the curtains to block out the morning sun and returned to the chair. They rested while the pigeon cooed and paced. Strays, thought Moss. He opened his eyes. How long had Irridis watched the house?
BOOKCASE
An hour later, while Irridis slept, Moss tugged his weathered shoulder bag from behind the couch. The ocelli had deprived him of restful sleep. Lying on his side, he had watched through slit eyes as they moved around the room. Relentless in their curiosity, they darted, formed a cluster and then darted some more. It was damned unnerving. Left uninterrupted, the ocelli would come to know the apartment in every detail. All that information would be transmitted to Irridis, who would draw from it conclusions that might never occur to Moss. Pulling the bag over his neck, Moss decided to seek relief from their intrusiveness on the roof.
He entered the library, shutting the door before the ocelli could follow. With a hooked staff, he pulled the ladder from the ceiling. It was a creaky contraption and he had to climb slowly to avoid noise. At the top he stepped into a long attic filled with bundled court documents and unused pieces of furniture. The door was at the far end.
Moss stepped onto a flat roof. The base of a telescope was bolted into the tarpaper. It looked heavy and military. He had always wondered if it had played some role in the war. He shuffled around it, balancing against the cast iron until he reached a chair. He tipped a puddle from the seat and dried it with his cuff before sitting down. The chair offered an excellent, if unstable, perch to view the surrounding neighborhood.
He set his bag between his ankles and pulled out The Songbirds of Nightjar Island. He was pleased to have kept his impetuous promise to Box. Years ago as they sat in the prison courtyard feeding bread crusts to the sparrows, Box had lamented the way Seaforth had taken his book. It had been taken as "evidence" but Seaforth had kept it for himself. Box knew this because the judge had bragged about it to the warden; the information had trickled down. Box had seemed so crushed. When Moss made the promise to steal it back, Box had put his hand over Moss's arm and given him a patronizing smile. Moss had burned with embarrassment. He had felt the pressure of the murderer's hands for hours after.
Moss remembered later watching Box sitting on the damp floor with his trays of blown eggs collected from the gutters and crevasses of Brickscold, and realizing that the man was operating in a different reality. Nevertheless, Moss had been determined. He would find the book and one day Seaforth would understand what had been done. The book was heavy in his hand.
He faced the direction of the sea and read passages until the wind came up and the first droplets raised spots on the paper. Blinking himself back to his surroundings, he closed the cover. He returned the book to the bag, and hurried back around the telescope base. Standing in the shelter of the doorway, watching the rain on nearby rooftops, his thoughts returned to Memoria. Was she hiding somewhere close to hand? Watching him from a dist
ant window? He smiled at the fantasy. If he found her, he would give her the book. Hadn't she always loved birds? He was sure Franklin Box would approve.
It was late afternoon. Across the chessboard Irridis's features had grown indistinct. Moss switched on a lamp. Its filament sizzled and brightened. A streetcar passed, sending a rumble through the apartment house. Glass rattled in the front of a bookcase, causing something inside to thump over.
"That sounded expensive," said Irridis dryly.
Bathed and dressed in clean, if rumpled, clothes, Moss hunched over the game board, trying to work out how Irridis had humiliated him yet again. He turned the black queen in his fingers. Like everything Seaforth owned it was of the finest craftsmanship. The handmade board and chessmen were made of snowflake obsidian and ivory. Each piece had green velvet on the base so that game play could be conducted in silence.
In Brickscold, the prisoners had made their own chessmen out of cork and bone. The games were played in a hall filled with clamor. Earlier, Moss had commented that he quite enjoyed the luxury of Seaforth's game board and the coziness of the room. Ever contrary, Irridis had remarked that he preferred blindfold chess, thereby eliminating the need for any board, which had irritated Moss to no end. Moss was about to tip his king when there was a knock at the door. They exchanged looks.
"I'll see what he wants," said Moss, rising from his chair.
Irridis restored the pieces to their starting positions and then walked into the adjoining library. The ocelli concealed themselves within an unlit chandelier. Moss straightened his clothing, adjusting the tuck of his shirt and smoothing the pocket flaps of his jacket. At the last moment, he took his revolver from a console table. He stroked the blue barrel. Another pounding on the door snapped him out of his reverie. He aimed the gun at the door.
"Bang," he whispered. He tucked the gun into the waistband at the back of his pants where it was concealed by the tail of the jacket.
Moss fiddled with the latch, and opened the door. Mr. Morel stepped forward to present himself. The man had a habit of knocking on the door and then retreating to a position several feet away where he would stand with his hands clasped behind his back. When the door opened he would then step forward in a crisp, officious manner. Small and misshapen, he reminded Moss of a root vegetable, all odd lumps and unappealing growths. He was dressed, as usual, in filthy moleskin pants, a tight jacket with greasy cuffs and thick-soled black shoes. Pinned to his lapel was a badge that he had made for himself that read Building Manager. His dog, Fits, named for her frequent epileptic seizures, sat at her master's heel, a muscular hobgoblin.
"Ah, you're in! You must have slept late." His eyes roved around the room behind Moss as if they were tracking a housefly.
"It's four in the afternoon," said Moss. Another streetcar rumbled past. The apartment house shook as though it might collapse at any moment.
"Yes, indeed it is, I can't argue with you there. Up late studying those heavy books, were you? My father always said reading will spoil your eyes. He always encouraged his children to get their noses out of a book and go outside for some fresh air. Not, I hasten to add, that one can find fresh air in the city. My father's point was a philosophical one."
"I have trouble sleeping."
"I dare say you do. All of those big thoughts tumbling around in your head, like so many rocks in a polisher," said Morel.
Is he mocking me? Moss wondered. Unctuous little prick.
"I am sorry to bother you, sir," said Morel, with an air of getting down to business, "but there is someone at the foot of the stairs. A not entirely unattractive lady, rather striking in fact, with airs to match." Morel followed this snide comment with a flourish of his hand as if to transport it to Moss's ear. He looked over his shoulder, and sheltering his mouth with his hand, commented sotto voce, "She doesn't seem quite right in the head, if you know what I mean." He pulled down the corners of his mouth like a carp.
"I'm sorry," said Moss. Suppressing the urge to slam the door. "I don't have any idea what you mean."
"Well, eccentric, I suppose. And not at all disposed to be forthcoming to the likes of me. Such disrespect for my station. By hell, it's a rare display of cheek for someone turning up unannounced on the doorstep."
"Mr. Morel," interjected Moss. "How can I be of assistance?"
"Yes, well, right then, I was wondering if you might go and see the lady, and I use the term with reservation, for yourself. She was dropped off by the streetcar, unaccompanied, and walked through the foyer doors as if she had business. She was scanning the names on the intercom when I spotted her during my rounds. But when I asked her what she wanted, she just stared at me as mute as a mop handle for nearly five seconds before finally asking for you."
"For me?" Moss, who had drifted into a trance, snapped his attention back to Morel's face.
"Indeed, though not by name. She asked for the instructor in Judge Seaforth's employ. A strange one. You'll understand when you meet her, sir. Not the kind that Judge Seaforth would suffer in the building, not at all. Judge Seaforth is careful who he lets in."
"All right, Mr. Morel, your point is well taken. I'll take care of it." Moss held up his hands in surrender.
"Well done. I thought you might. Find me if you need me. I'll be in the basement, cleaning out the mousetraps." Morel left, clutching a small burlap bag. Fits hesitated for a moment and then followed her master.
Moss glanced at the chandelier, and then entered the hall. Irridis would not risk sending the ocelli after him. If trouble arose, he would have to deal with it on his own. A visitor was unprecedented. Moss rubbed the tattoo on his wrist as he walked.
Despite his dread of the device, Moss took the elevator, rather than the stairs. Inside the cage, a mechanical and aesthetic monstrosity of brass tendrils and birds, he fastened his jacket and straightened his sleeves. Descending, he adopted what he hoped was an authoritative demeanor. He rehearsed a few words in his head, brisk but not unkind, something to send the stranger on her way with a minimum of questions. The elevator stopped and Moss opened the cage gate.
Lamb's accomplice waited across the foyer. Her left hand rested on the finial at the bottom of the staircase. Reflections from the street-facing window moved over her. At the sound of Moss exiting the elevator, she turned, as though her thoughts had been interrupted. She was dressed in a black coat with tortoiseshell buttons over a grey skirt and knee-high leather boots. At his approach, she folded her kidskin-gloved hands and raised her chin. A case sat at her feet, antique wood with an ox ring handle and brass fittings.
Moss walked toward her, his speech quite forgotten. "What do you want?" he asked. His heels clicked on the parquet floor. The revolver prodded the small of his back.
"I need to talk to you," she said. "And Irridis."
"I'm Joseph Woods, Judge Seaforth's instructor," said Moss, his voice raised. "His children's instructor, that is." With a bemused smile, the woman removed a glove and offered her hand. It felt cool and slender. The effect was immediate and erotic. The image of her body naked in the moonlight flashed through his mind. He refocused.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Moss said under his breath.
"My name is Imogene. Is there somewhere we can speak privately, Mr. Woods?" Her voice had a slight northern accent. "I'd be most appreciative." Relieved that she was willing to play along, Moss nodded.
"You won't need your gun," she whispered. She raised her eyebrows at Moss's confusion. "Behind you." She pointed around him. Moss looked over his shoulder and saw the obvious shape beneath his jacket, reflected in a large framed mirror. "Now, can we go up, or should we talk here and risk being overheard?" A lamprey pendant hung on a chain around Imogene's neck. It was identical in design to the one that itched on his wrist.
"Come with me. We can take the elevator."
"Would you mind helping me with this? It weighs a ton." Moss nodded and took the case by its handle, realizing a beat too late that she had just disadvantaged him by occupy
ing his hands. The case was heavy but he was able to move it on two reluctant metal wheels. Gesturing with his head, he indicated that Imogene should lead. In the elevator he tipped the case back with relief. He closed the gate, hoping that Morel was still engrossed in his mouse-catching activity. They stood in awkward proximity not speaking as the elevator ascended to the third floor with creaks and groans. When the elevator stopped Moss pointed to the apartment door.
"There. Go in. I'll follow with this." Struggling with the case, he wondered if he was making a terrible mistake.
COMMON INTEREST
Moss locked the door and directed Imogene through the apartment to the library. Even Morel would not be able to hear their voices from there. Moss was relieved to find that Irridis had left the room, though he did notice the ocelli resting innocuously among glass paperweights on a shelf. At his invitation, Imogene sat in a wingback chair facing the cold fireplace. Moss leaned against the mantelpiece and invited his visitor to speak first.
"Why don't you sit down, Moss?" She removed her left glove, revealing a slender hand. Moss's eyes lingered on the simple ruby ring on her index finger.
"I'll stand, thanks."
Imogene sighed. "Suit yourself." She laid the gloves across her knees. Beneath her eyes the skin was purplish.
"I haven't found Memoria. It's only been a few days."
"That's not why I'm here."
Moss pulled up his sleeve, exposing the lamprey tattoo.
"I was wondering how long it would take for you to bring that up," said Imogene. "For the record, I didn't do it. It was done at Lamb's insistence."
"A member of the Red Lamprey?" asked Moss, wearily.
"No. You have to admit it has a certain quality of line."
"Hilarious," said Moss. "That night, when you drugged and kidnapped me—"
"I was supposed to watch you, make sure you didn't stop breathing. That drug I gave you in the tunnel was dangerous and unstable. That's why you were there with me, to sleep it off. I did you a favor."
Necessary Monsters Page 7
