Oliver stood in front of the stove, a pipe smoldering between his lips. The smoke hung around him like a noxious, personal atmosphere. The skin beneath his eyes bagged. He wore black pants, a white shirt and a dove-grey overcoat. In spite of his affected posture he was in a state of repressed conflict, edgy, even nervous. His body gave the impression of being held upright by a supreme act of will. His fingers drummed on his thighs and his left bird claw rattled like a sewing machine treadle.
Moss limped to a chair and gripped its back. His first impulse was to throw it at Oliver. He settled instead on using it for support, easing his weight onto his good leg. He could only imagine how much Oliver was enjoying his predicament. Seaforth's fine clothes were ruined. The delicate weaves and detailed stitching had not been designed for gunplay and coal chutes. The pants bagged at the knees, the jacket was torn across the left shoulder and the shirt was soaked through with sweat, stained with blood and coal dust. Something below his left eye itched, making it run, but he was too spent to care.
"Oliver. What a coincidence," said Moss. His mouth was dry, and there was coal grit between his teeth. "Just happening by?"
Oliver exhaled a stream of blue smoke that ended with an impatient sigh. "The boy got the shellacking of a lifetime. He was confused about his loyalties. But eventually, he told me where you were hiding. Under my nose, no less."
"You're a prick."
"I'll not be lied to."
"You beat him."
"You have a soft spot, Moss. You always did. And where's it got you?"
"It doesn't matter to you that he's a kid? How can you be so callous?"
"How can you be so ridiculous? He's a guttersnipe, just as we were all guttersnipes at his age. You'd do well to remember where you came from, Moss. Besides, what do you really know about that damned boy? Nothing. Confusing him with books, that's what you're doing."
"That's a strange opinion from a bookseller," said Moss.
"Bah, books are a commodity. Ideas come and go; the world never changes in its essentials." Oliver drew his head back in challenge. "Don't think I don't know what you've been doing. Books. Where have your damned books got you?"
"He deserves better than the life you are offering him."
"Oh really?" said Oliver with mock seriousness. "I think you're making assumptions. You think you know everything about the boy."
"I didn't say that."
"Well, did you know that he's been going to Seaforth's apartment to keep an eye on you and your friend? Very naïve." Oliver wagged the stem of his pipe. "Did you think your silly lessons—oh, never mind, it's not important anymore."
"So what did you learn? Chicken on Monday, shellfish on Friday night? That must have been a scintillating revelation."
"Don't mock me. You never know when a little inside knowledge is going to come in useful."
"What do you want, Oliver?" asked Moss.
"I want Imogene's bookcase and everything in it. The contents will be very interesting to the right people."
Moss spit coal grit.
"Oh yeah, I know who she is, Lamb's little criminal protégé. That's why I had Andrew sniffing around her apartment at night. He would have grabbed the bookcase then, but it was too heavy."
"Of course, Andrew."
"Like smoke through a keyhole," said Oliver. "But not very strong. So, we decided to watch her and see what she was about."
"Always after the big prize."
Oliver shrugged. "Andrew scared her. Imagine my surprise, though, when she came to the shop the next morning. She dangled that book under my nose, not knowing that I knew there were many more." Oliver chuckled. "And then she asked for you, very direct, no small talk. That woke the curiosity in me, I can tell you. I mean, given what you are supposed to be doing for Lamb."
"You followed her?"
"Well, not in person." Oliver widened his eyes and tugged his pants by the sharp creases.
"So you had Andrew do it."
"She didn't set a foot toward Seaforth's building for two days. I thought she'd thought better of it."
"You could have stolen the case while she was out," said Moss.
"Yeah, but then I remembered that Lamb had approached my father looking for a traveling bookcase many years ago. So it started to feel like a double-cross on the girl's part. That being the case, forgive the pun, the potential of the situation became that much more interesting."
"She knows I work for the judge," said Moss. "She wants to sell the books to him and asked me to broker the sale. I wanted the drawings to be the complete set. You of all people should understand that, hence my request to trade for the bird book."
"I knew it." Oliver tapped his temple. "Little bitch assumed he'd give her a better price."
Moss let go of the chair. Vertigo threatened to overcome him. He wondered if he was concussed or had lost too much blood.
"But Seaforth and the cop fucked it all up by trying to shoot you and the woman in the street."
"Trying? Is Imogene alive?" said Moss.
"Seaforth is incandescent that you, an escaped convict, were living in his apartment, and touching his precious first editions." Oliver put his hands over his face, and then looked at Moss through parted fingers. "To think you nearly taught his little darlings." He dropped his hands, becoming serious. "Seaforth is telling people that the good detective was aiming to wing you. I'd recommend that you lie low, Lumsden Moss, late of Brickscold."
"Oliver, for fuck's sake, where's Imogene? Is she alive?"
"Yes, idiot, she is alive. While you were leading a merry chase, it seems she got up, dusted herself off and capitalized on the confusion to escape in the cab," said Oliver. "The driver panicked when he realized she was hurt and dumped her off somewhere near the steps. Fortunately Croaker was there to lend a hand."
"So, where is she?" asked Moss.
"Somewhere safe, if not altogether comfortable." Oliver drew on his pipe. "I'd like to know where the case of books got to in all of this." He expelled smoke. "She doesn't have it. I assume even you weren't stupid enough to leave it behind, which leaves our good friend Irridis."
"I don't know where he is."
"But you can find him. So here's the offer, Lumsden. Bring me the case before you go to the Cloth Hall to meet Lamb and I'll give you Imogene. You'll need her, I assume, for whatever stupidity you're planning next. Lamb doesn't have to know a thing about any of this. He'll be distracted and he thinks the bookcase is long since lost. You can find me in the Bird Alley."
"Don't screw me on this."
"I won't," said Oliver. "But if you don't show up, I'm going to turn her over to Lamb and tell him the whole sorry story. At least I'll get points for going to him. I'm taking a huge risk in withholding, so I need to get something sweet out of this. I'm giving you a chance, for old times' sake. Bring me the case, get the girl."
"You think of everything," said Moss.
"Strike where the fly is going." Oliver looked around as if he had heard something. "We'd better get out of here. The cops will be searching every cellar and attic for you. It's just a matter of time before they check here. Can you walk?"
"Barely. A bullet sliced my leg open," said Moss.
Oliver reached into his pocket. He tossed Moss a vial. "For the pain, on the house. Nothing better."
Moss caught the vial of sinispore and put it into a pocket without a look. Grimacing at the pain, felt simultaneously in his heel and knee, he followed Oliver through the abandoned bakery, leaving the warmth of the kitchen for a progression of cooler and dimmer corridors. They emerged through a service door into a wet night where every surface was dark or reflective, as if everything had been transformed into crude oil. They stopped in a space beneath a corrugated overhang, which was dominated by a giant food mixer with a fire-blackened motor housing. Moss had difficulty seeing Oliver's face. It was a blob of folded dough moving from side to side. His shoulders were hunched.
"What's the matter with you?' Moss asked, raising his voice t
o be heard over the hiss of the rain.
"We aren't the only ones with an interest in Imogene," said Oliver.
"I know, Lamb—" began Moss.
Oliver shook his head. "No, I don't mean Lamb. Another."
"Who?"
"Someone has been stalking her. Somebody uncanny."
Moss forced a laugh, but his arms had gooseflesh. "What are you talking about?"
"A witch."
"Oliver, are you resorting to frightening me with phantoms now?"
"A word to the wise is all. I'd hate to see you run into problems before I get my prize." Oliver tapped his pipe bowl against a wall. Tobacco embers sizzled to the ground. He stared into the night. The man is shit scared, Moss realized.
Something nudged his foot. Moss looked down to see a pale slug larger than his hand, moving in fluid contractions up his leg. It had a crest of waving tendrils that were probing the blood-stained cloth. He kicked it off in disgust. It landed nearby, a glistening knot of tissue crusted in dirt. Moss winced, touching his calf, now streaked with iridescent mucus. "Did Imogene mention the witch to you?"
Oliver's pale face ran with water. He had stepped outside of the roof's protection. A curtain of drops now separated them. He hesitated.
"No," he said, finally.
Moss raised his palms. "Okay, let's say you are right. What does your witch look like?"
"Don't patronize me." Oliver turned on him, jabbing the air with the pipe stem, his affected composure gone. "I didn't see it. The damned thing entered me. Felt inside me, like a long cold hand stirring my organs. I never want to encounter it again. Which is why you are going to find that case in a hurry."
"Tell me what happened."
"I saw the woman, Imogene, in the Cloth Hall on the day she came to the shop," said Oliver, staring into the middle distance. "It was night. She was alone. Most of the stalls were closed. I was with Andrew in the corner where they sell fruit. All of a sudden I felt sick."
Oliver was rattled. He stopped talking for a moment and scraped at a still-glowing ember on the ground with one of his metal feet. "I could feel something, invisible, working at me, like it was trying to get into my body. At first it wasn't able, then all of a sudden it found a way in. It slid into my mouth and ears, even the corners of my eyes. It probed anywhere there was a hole, for God's sake, like invisible fingers. Once it was inside, it was warm, a presence. It only lasted a few minutes. After that, it left me and I woke up on the ground. It had gone to the woman. I could tell by the strange expression on her face that she felt as I did. I don't know what happened after that because I fainted again. Andrew claimed that I had some kind of seizure and that I was raving about strange lights. He said that while I was kicking around on the ground he saw a demon, shuffling through the horse stalls, a giant covered in dust. I tried to beat a more accurate description out of him, but that's all the boy would say, a giant." Oliver spat on the floor.
"Are you really sure you want that bookcase, Oliver?" asked Moss, his voice low.
Oliver raised a fist. "Patronizing bastard. I don't give a shit if you believe a word of it, Lumsden, just bring me that case." Moss limped away through the dark. "Make no mistake, I will hand her over to Lamb," Oliver shouted after him.
Moss stepped into a recessed doorway and watched Oliver leave the bakery yard. As soon as Oliver rounded the corner, Moss hobbled after him. In his current condition it would be impossible to track a person walking at normal speed, but Oliver moved slowly and deliberately on his bird legs. Perhaps he would lead Moss to Imogene.
Oliver's route led to the front of the bakery. The façade of the building came from an age when even industrial buildings were given the countenance of authority. A black sedan rumbled against a backdrop where wide steps led to hidden doors and towering columns with elaborate capitals supported heavy cornices. A signature of exhaust rose from the car up through the rain. Moss stopped in time to see Oliver climbing into the back of the car. Oliver ducked under an umbrella held by the same woman who had stirred his bath. She folded the umbrella and climbed in after him. The door closed with a solid thump. A moment later, the car roared away, its engine echoing off the surrounding buildings.
Moss found a stairwell. It was full of trash but otherwise empty. One image filled his mind, the towering figure he had seen harnessed to the black carriage. At the time it had seemed a frightening apparition, one that he had stumbled upon in his curiosity about the dog. Oliver's story put things in a new light. It was clear that the witch stalking Imogene was also stalking him. He had to warn Irridis.
Witches and giants. Great, thought Moss, just great.
SAWDUST AND GLUE
During his first year in Brickscold Prison, Moss watched a young man, older than but not unlike Andrew, die of sepsis. During a rough game of football, the youth had been knocked into a drainage ditch that ran along the side of the exercise yard. Climbing out of the murky water, he had cut his foot on a piece of rusty culvert submerged in the soft mud. Within hours, what had at first seemed a superficial gash had begun to swell and show signs of infection. Through the night, the youth became fevered and the wound spread red tributaries along his pale legs. Some of the older men brought him blankets and tea, but the infection was relentless and despite the rough words of encouragement, the outcome was never in question. In the morning, Moss saw the guards drag the body, rolled in mildewed canvas, into the yard for cremation.
The makeshift shroud against the prison floor had made an unforgettable sound. The memory roused Moss to leave the stairwell, fighting the pain, and walk to the shipwright's house. The house promised a dry, warm and hidden place to ingest the sinispore. He would find Irridis, as soon as his strength was restored.
It took him an hour to reach Hellbender Fields. The ill-lit avenues and treed gardens provided welcome concealment. He came to a marble fountain at the center of a deserted square, dwarfed by the silent, facing houses. Inclement weather had driven the residents to the warm hearts of their homes. Moss shivered in the shadow of a sea deity, a diminutive figure before its scaled limbs and tentacles, wreathed in stylized fish, all gaping maws and rolling eyes.
He located a winding cut between a mansion and its carriage house. A summer's growth had thrown up rustling walls on either side to obscure what lay beyond. A river of bricks led him to a crisp house surrounded by rattling weeds. A rusting anchor declared that he had found the home of the Somnambulist's shipwright. Moss had never seen the house. There was a vulnerability about it that gave him pause. The fastidious attention to architectural detail might have suggested pride, but Moss saw in it the unbearable agony of being away from the sea—the need for constant distraction.
The house was a tower set in a walled lot, with a gnarled apple tree huddled in each corner. Moss skirted the front door and made for the back of the house. The gate opened onto a path through untended herbs to a door that was a minor masterpiece of joinery. Snail shells snapped beneath his shoes as he shifted from foot to foot to ease his injured leg. The door was unlocked. Moss paused, uncertain whether to proceed.
"Irridis?" Inside, moonlight patterned the floor. He was in a kitchen. There was a nutty odor of cardamom and cloves. It was a simple, clean room, with a concave chopping block, a modest gas cooker and a larder. The only furniture was a wooden table with a single chair. Ship shape, thought Moss.
In the next room he felt leaves and grit underfoot. Someone had preceded him, but who and when? A faint glow emanated from a single window. A few steps took him to the foot of a spiral staircase. From there he could see the front door where a tea tray sat beneath the letter slot, catching a card house of scattered post. Lumpen shapes of draped furniture and bookshelves lurked in the shadows like sleeping beasts. A clock face above the fireplace reflected Moss's distorted form as he moved about the room.
At the foot of the staircase he listened for sounds on the upper floors, but there was only silence.
"Irridis?" There was no response. "Irridis, are you here?"
Again, nothing. He started up the stairs. Halfway to the top he heard the creak of a heavy body walking across the kitchen floor.
He rushed to the top, gritting his teeth against the throb in his calf. He took in a workshop laid out around a bench covered with an assortment of plans. Lumber leaned in racks against the walls. Carpentry tools dangled from hooks in the ceiling. A model of a rigged ship, perhaps the Somnambulist, rested on a table. Odors of sawdust and glue filled the air.
Kneeling on aching heels, he watched the room below through the open staircase. A now-familiar figure moved between the furniture. Its head, disproportionately large, swayed from side to side. Wisps of leaf smoke reached Moss's nose, threatening to make him sneeze. The creature, for it could not be described as human, crashed furniture to the floor in its passing. It gave a bestial snort, exhaling a cloud of hot gas and embers, like a bog fire disturbed by a sudden wind. Moss hardly breathed. He fought an impulse to retreat deeper into the house's recesses. The creature moved out of sight.
A cool hand covered Moss's mouth. He twisted away and found himself staring into a man's deeply shadowed face. The creature's sudden roar shook the house. The stranger put a finger against his lips. Moss glanced at the room below, but the creature was still out of view. The reek of scorched tinder faded. When he turned back, he saw the man walking toward an open door where an overhead pulley was silhouetted against the night sky. He was short and lean, barely taller than Andrew. Scraggly black hair swept over a high forehead and spilled over the man's coat collar. When he turned, Moss could see a narrow nose, a dab of white between close-set eyes, thin lips and a pointed chin.
Moss joined him, and together they looked down on the garden.
Necessary Monsters Page 13
