Moss leaned against a wall to clear his head, several feet from a row house. Through the front window, past a sprawling aspidistra, he could see a parlor occupied by an upright piano. It was covered with framed photographs. Beyond the piano was a doorway, and within that, another. At the end of this succession of openings was a kitchen door leading into a tiny garden with a shed and a rose bush. Sparrows chased something invisible across the path. A sharp rap on the glass brought him back to the street. Moss jumped. An elderly woman, with a pale powdery face and a nest of hair held by a scarf, gestured for him to move on. Without argument, he resumed walking. He wanted no trouble.
The street was lined on both sides with red brick row houses like the one he had just looked into. The left side of the street was a mirror image of the right. He half expected to see a doppelganger walking along the sidewalk on the other side. This thought so seized his imagination that he could not help looking. When he did, he saw a child pushing a doll in a rusty stroller. He turned back to find yet another child, a girl of about five years, standing in front of him.
"My dad says strangers aren't to be trusted," she said. Moss froze, somehow unable to pass. "My dad says that's how Mum got knocked up with another little one. He's going to kick that man's teeth out if he ever catches him. There might be blood, you'll see."
"Let me past, please," said Moss. His voice sounded odd to his ear. It was high, impatient.
"I'm not stopping you. Have you seen blood? Real blood?" The girl stepped toward him. Her face was filthy and her hair crawled with lice. Moss walked around her. "You will soon." He hummed as he walked, attempting to drown her out.
A jagged seam of light appeared in his field of vision and slid on the diagonal. The back of his head throbbed and his skull was heavy, as though filling with sand. In the window of a post office, a riot of typography dizzied him, pulling him into a vortex of language. Letters shimmered, dissolved and then reappeared elsewhere when he tried to focus. He kept walking, convinced that the movement and the air would calm him. His vision deteriorated. To his left, a green gate led onto a narrow space between the houses. In this alley, old lumber warred with cans of overflowing garbage. A cat, with Imogene's amber eyes, slunk past, its tail low. He needed to vomit and shit at the same time. Terrified that he was about to have a humiliating accident, he rolled against the gate with his shoulder. It swung inward, stopping with a loud smack against the wall.
The alley was chill and damp with a welcome, concealing shade. Moss stumbled forward clutching his belt buckle, ready for any eventuality. By now the visual snow that had all but robbed him of his sight glowed like a cascade of embers. He gulped air and expelled vomit. It poured from his throat like magma. He looked toward the end of the alley, his eyes filled with tears. The sentinel-like creature from the roundhouse towered against the light. Embers flew from its head, on a wind that seemed to rise through the creature as though it were a chimney. Moss turned away intending to go back the way he had come, but another form blocked the route. This time it was a man. When the boot heel hit his sternum he flew backward into darkness.
They rooted through his pockets, and he was powerless to prevent it. He was detached, lost within himself. Had his heart stopped? Was he dying? They were not gentle, these hooligans. They rolled him over and over, grinding gravel and granulated glass into his hands and cheeks. They tore open his coat and shirt. They pulled his pants down to his knees and when they found nothing, kicked him for sport. He felt his sleeve being pulled up and Wood's watch fall away. There was a moment of argument as though they had become afraid, and then they were gone in a flurry of booted footsteps.
Hours passed. The wind rose as the light died, setting the leaves of nearby poplar trees ticking. Poplars, with their distinct smell, woody and ancient, reminded him of his childhood. He would escape from his sisters and their claustrophobic house near the strand where ships were broken, and climb into the poplar copse far down the beach. In the spring the buds were sticky like the blood that was now drying between his fingers. He wanted to cry out, but still, he could not move.
A dog came by. He could not tell if it was real or a dream. It licked his hands with a rough tongue that curled around each finger. At intervals it would stop, make a soft rhythmic sound with its mouth, and then begin again. How much time had passed? The night came and for a time the dog lay alongside him, its fur coarse but warm. Eventually, Moss became aware that the dog had left him. Had he blacked out again? He looked at the stars for a long time before he realized two things. He was shivering, meaning he was moving, no longer paralyzed, and somebody was standing nearby. He turned his head as much as he dared, and saw a pair of child's boots. A fetish was twisted around the ankle of the left foot, a chain woven with black feathers and small vertebrae in place of beads. He had found similar bones in pellets beneath the poplars.
"Moss," said a girl's voice.
Help me, please. It was no use; the words would not come.
The dog panted nearby. So, it had not left.
Rain.
At dawn he was lifted from the ground and carried to a running car, a taxi by the smell of it. He must have cooperated in some manner, but he had no memory of it later. A male voice spoke to him, giving gentle instructions and asking questions that Moss was unable to respond to. When he came to it was in his bed in Seaforth's apartment. He was alone and guessed by the intensity of the light in the window that it was midday. Kicking aside the blankets he found that the blood and grit had been washed off. The bruises and scrapes that remained were sore, particularly his knees, which were raw, as though he had been dragged over a pavement. He settled back onto the pillows and slept for a while longer. When he woke the second time he climbed out of bed and dressed in his own clothing.
Irridis sat in the kitchen, eyes closed, his head lit by the slanting light of the evening. Moss lowered himself into the chair on the opposite side of the table. When Irridis was in this meditative state, Moss had no idea if he was aware of what was going on around him. The ocelli hung motionless on the air in no discernible pattern. Their arrangement reminded Moss of a child's mobile. He cleared his throat to speak and then thought better of it.
GLASS SKELETON
"He was a painter with no talent." J. Hart Gale had grown even more whiskered since their first encounter. The change gave him a grandfatherly aspect at odds with the duplicitous undercurrent Moss sensed. He put his empty brandy glass on the mantel over the library fireplace and clapped his hands. His face was creased and raw, as though he had spent several days outdoors. Its texture reminded Moss of pomegranate skin. Gale had spent the past hour opining on a murder that had occurred in the Cloth Hall.
"You'd often find him at the Cloth Hall, where he was working on the mural of a whale, painting in an apron over a full suit, never a spot on him. His work had all the soul of a diagram in a schoolbook, accurate enough scientifically, I suppose, but lacking in that ineffable quality that makes a work truly great. I think he was doing the current leviathan to scale." He snapped his fingers. "If I am not mistaken, that deplorable episode in the Cloth Hall made the paper, the morning edition. Did you see it? Horrible when a man is murdered in cold blood, even a man of middling talent."
Moss shook his head, and lifted himself from an armchair. He winced as the muscles in his legs and shoulders complained. Only a few hours had elapsed since he had awoken bruised and scraped. "I don't read the paper."
"No?" said Gale, regarding Moss with watery eyes. "A curious thing for an educated man. I'd have thought you'd want to be up on things, current events and such. These are changing times, sir."
"Of course I will, when the children are here," said Moss, scrambling. "But when I'm alone I prefer to direct my attention to books, focus on the deeper analysis, if you know what I mean."
"I suppose so, you have a point." Gale took his coat from the back of the chair he had been sitting in. "It's nothing but spectacle at any rate. 'Twas ever thus." Moss wasn't sure if the man was refer
ring to newspapers in general, the painter's murder, or his work. "Well, thank you, Joseph, for a most agreeable evening."
"It was kind of you to drop in, Mr. Gale," said Moss. "I am sorry Judge Seaforth wasn't here to greet you himself. Nevertheless, I enjoyed our visit. Your knowledge of antiquities is very impressive. Are you sure I can't get you another brandy?"
Gale chuckled. "No, no. I think we have abused that bottle well enough for one night. Well, I hope that Seaforth will shed some light on the whereabouts of the book when he returns. It amazes me to think he misplaced it. I've been looking for that book for several years, and he knows it. He should be more careful. It's quite a nuisance."
"Maybe he took it with him. Since it's a rare book, he might have wanted it for his stay, to look it over before passing it on. I'll be sure to mention it to him when he arrives back." He helped Gale into his overcoat.
"I shall remind him myself, the old son of a bitch." He raised his voice, wagging the air with his finger. "Where is my copy of The Songbirds of Nightjar Island, you old rogue? That is what I shall say. Ah, but at least he left the key to the liquor cabinet, Joseph. It made enjoyable what would otherwise have been a disappointing visit. In all seriousness, see that you do ask after the book. I paid a hefty price for a similar volume on ichthyology. In unscrupulous hands, the plates alone would be worth a fortune." He rested his hand on Moss's forearm. "They cut the illustrations from the binding and sell them framed. I've seen it done. Barbarous practice. I would hate to see the book placed in the wrong hands."
"I am sure it's in good hands," said Moss.
Gale made his unsteady way past a glass-topped table. One of Seaforth's odder curios, a three-foot replica of a human skeleton, made of red glass, stood on its surface. Moss held his breath as Gale stumbled toward it. With a lurch in his stomach, he became conscious that the angle of the skeleton's arm pointed to Moss's atlas, The Golden World Traveler, which sat a foot or so away. Gale did not notice this alignment, but for Moss it presaged what happened next. As Gale balanced himself on the carved edge of the table, he was brought up short by the atlas.
"Ah, the book you purchased the other day. Delightful." Before Moss could protest, Gale lifted the cover to reveal one of the drawings from the traveling bookcase. Moss had been studying it when Gale arrived unannounced and hidden it in his haste to answer the door. Gale opened the cover fully, his demeanor serious.
"Oh my, this is quite something. May I?" he asked, already picking up the drawing. Huffing and puffing, Gale squinted at it under his glasses, and then dropped it as if it had come to life in his hand. "How did you come by this?" His cheeks were ashen.
Cursing his stupidity, Moss struggled to maintain a neutral expression. "Is it important? A dealer gave it to me on speculation. Do you know something about it?"
"On speculation? Forgive me, Joseph. Pull the other one. Something like this, on an instructor's salary? Please."
"Of course," said Moss. "I'm joking. What do you know about it?"
"It looks very much to me like a drawing that might have been used in ritual occult practice, such as was once practiced on Nightjar Island. Ah, there's our proof. Do you not see that watermark? Papers made on the island were tightly regulated and made under the strictest guidelines. The guild required a watermark on each sheet. By God, this must be three hundred years old if it's a day."
Moss laughed. "Now you're pulling my leg. I think you have had too much brandy, sir. It's only a drawing. An interesting one, yes, but as to your explanation, well, you'll pardon my skepticism. Besides, it's a felony to have art from Nightjar in one's possession."
"If Seaforth has a mind to sell it, I would compensate him generously." Gale's eyes had hardened.
"It's not his to sell, unfortunately," said Moss, panicking. "The rub is that it's actually on loan, but as you rightly guessed, to Judge Seaforth, not me, and he's seriously considering the purchase. I am sorry that I deceived you just now, I was just trying to protect my employer's privacy." And this lie is becoming quicksand, he thought.
"If he does not purchase it, does there exist a possibility I might have an opportunity?" The greed in Gale's expression was naked. The man wanted to negotiate.
"I really don't know," said Moss, keeping his tone breezy, hoping to dissipate the tension.
"Preposterous," said Gale. "Let's not deceive each other, Joseph. You're no fool; surely you know how this looks. If the wrong person knew this drawing was in Seaforth's possession it could ruin the judge. You may not read the papers but others certainly do. Let me take it from you. Save the man from himself, Joseph."
"Mr. Gale, that sounds like a threat," said Moss. "I'm sorry. I cannot do as you ask." Gale's eyes moved around the room and returned to Moss. "I see. Well. Let's part company with the understanding that should you change your mind, my offer stands." Gale squeezed Moss's shoulder with a hand that felt like something used to remove tree limbs.
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Yes, you do that," said Gale. Moss walked him to the apartment door. He opened it and stepped into the hall for the final goodbye. Gale shook hands, turned to leave, and then stopped.
"Sober second thoughts?" asked Gale.
"Don't forget your hat, sir. It's still raining."
"Come now," said Gale, taking his hat by the brim. He explored Moss's face, lifting his glasses for a closer look. His breath reeked of expensive brandy and worn teeth. "Have it your way, then. I don't understand your reasoning. Good night." With that, Gale weaved to the head of the stairs. Morel was sweeping dead flies from the window ledge on a lower landing, eavesdropping.
"I won't take the elevator," said Gale. "Never could stand being trapped in a cage, if you know what I mean. By the way," he added as an afterthought, "you must come to my club for dinner before too long."
"Thank you, sir, I'll consider it."
"Goodnight then." A lesser man, thought Moss, would throw him down the entire thirteen steps to Mr. Morel's feet.
"Damn," said Moss. Back in the apartment he paced the floor in front of Irridis. "He knows who I am. He was toying with me there at the end, the smug prick. That remark about being trapped in a cage."
"He's a bad actor," said Irridis. "The mistake was in letting him through the door in the first place."
"He showed up unannounced," said Moss. "What was I to do? I've been on edge since Imogene arrived. I'm not thinking clearly."
"I thought you'd lost your mind," said Irridis. Moss's expression darkened, as he emptied a prodigious measure of brandy into a fresh glass.
"It's quicker if you drink it from the bottle," said Irridis. "I couldn't believe that you asked that gasbag if he wanted another drink."
"I was trying to put him at ease. You should have seen his face when he saw the drawing," said Moss. "Pure covetousness."
"I don't think you should underestimate him." Moss could see the twitch of dark orbs beneath Irridis's eyelids. As always, he was reminded of a certain type of toxic amphibian he had owned as a boy. "I find it hard to believe that his encounter with you in the bookshop was an accident."
"It just underscores what we talked about. It's time to leave."
"Yes, it is."
"Something must be done about Lamb." Moss looked at Irridis, meeting his eyes.
Irridis understood. "What is your plan?"
"I'm going to see Oliver Taxali tomorrow and tell him that I've located Memoria. I'll tell him that I'm planning to bring her to the Cloth Hall at midnight the day after tomorrow. He'll know it's bullshit, he loves a bit of trouble and will play along." Irridis started to speak, but Moss shook his head and continued. "Imogene not only lives in the Cloth Hall, she actually works for the Museum of Natural History."
"How do you know that for sure?"
"I found her employee card in her coat pocket." He shrugged at Irridis's mock face-palm. "I've done some research. The attic of the Cloth Hall is where the museum stores their mothballed collections. I just need to convince Oliver to arra
nge a meeting there, with Lamb."
"That will be unpredictable," said Irridis. "When Lamb discovers he's been tricked—"
"It doesn't matter. The whole point is to draw Lamb out. He won't be able to resist."
"And then you will kill him?"
Moss nodded. Prison had inured him to the occasional necessity for violence. It had been an undercurrent to everyday life. He was equally aware that enacting violence was not the same as contemplating it in the abstract. Therein lay the reason for the tightening in his gut.
"Yes, and we'll have to move quickly after that. The Red Lamprey will be looking for retribution."
Irridis looked thoughtful. "Politics in an organization like the Red Lamprey are complex. From what I understand, certain members of the group, who see Lamb as the last of an old guard, revile him. He's made a host of enemies over the years. The power vacuum that you will create will distract them. They are a surprisingly traditional organization. The loss of Lamb will initiate an arcane sequence of rituals that will keep them tied up for a time. The last thing they will be worried about is some snitch of Lamb's, with all due respect. By the time they return their attention, you'll have dropped out, taken a new identity. The real danger is surviving a confrontation with Lamb himself. Are you sure this is what you want to do?"
Moss twisted his arm until the lamprey tattoo was visible to them both.
"You said it yourself, Irridis. This is my death warrant as long as Lamb is alive. He doesn't leave loose ends. If we leave with Imogene, he will stop at nothing to track us down. This is his contract with me." Moss dropped his arm.
Irridis looked up. "Yes, he has chosen you and you are bound to him as tightly as Imogene is. As long as he is alive, you could both be hit at any moment, at his whim."
"He chose me because he thinks I can be turned. It's that simple, Irridis, he thinks that I can be turned." Moss felt rage building in his breast. "He believes that I will be highly motivated to produce Memoria to save my own skin." Moss stepped backward and swept the glass skeleton off the table. It shattered on the floor. He stood for several minutes amid the mess.
Necessary Monsters Page 10
