New Title 1

by Dru Pagliassotti

  The officer who was monitoring the onlookers intercepted him.

  “Are you campus security?”

  “No. I’m the university provost, Gregory Penemue. I received a call about some sort of problem here.”

  “Yes, sir.” To Jack’s frustration, the officer lowered his voice and ushered Penemue to one side. The two men’s expressions were grave as they spoke.

  Another siren split the night and everyone turned, looking for the source. A minute later the ambulance turned the corner, cutting its siren and driving into the parking lot. More students gathered, and the neighbors across the street from campus stepped out onto their front porches.

  Two paramedics left the ambulance carrying bags and hurried into the house.

  “That’s not good,” Jack breathed. A similar murmur slithered its way through the assembled students. Several pulled out phones.

  Penemue had his own phone to his ear and was speaking in a low, controlled voice.

  “Do you want to stay?” Andy asked, turning. “We should give Edward a call if we’re going to be here much longer.”

  “I don’t know.” Jack jammed his cold hands into his jacket pockets. He craved a cigarette, but his pack and lighter were back in the apartment. “Seems likely whatever happened here is linked to the bones and the angel, don’t you think?”

  Andy nodded. Neither of them believed in coincidences when mal'akhim were involved. “Let me see what I can do.” He edged his way through the crowd to the ambulance driver and began speaking in a low voice. The driver shrugged and pointed to the police officer, who glanced at them and strode over.

  Jack saw Penemue fold his phone and walk over to join the conversation. A familiar prickle ran down his back. He turned and searched the crowds for whatever had set off the protective sigils sewn into the lining of his jacket.

  The angel stood on the other side of the parking lot, its black wings folded around its body. It turned its head as soon as Jack perceived it, and for a moment its blank eyes faced him. Jack shuddered and crossed himself, knowing as he did that the gesture would only make him easier for the angel to detect.

  For a long moment the angel regarded him. The sigils in his jacket and the blessed medal of St. Jude around his neck set his teeth on edge with their auric clatter. Then the creature turned its attention back to the house, and the alarms lowered their intensity to a warning prickle.

  Jack swallowed and studied the house and those around it with renewed intensity. Something here had caught an angel’s attention, and he didn’t think it would be good news.

  Members of the mal'akhim, whether b'nei elohim or nephilim, could only see that which was closely allied or actively opposed. Most of what humans perceived about the world around them—indeed, most humans themselves—went unseen by the Host, neither good enough nor evil enough to elicit the Host’s attention or affect their substance. God might mark every sparrow’s fall, Andy had once told him, but the eyes of the mal'akhim were fixed on each other.

  Jack knew he was a shadowy figure on the border of the Host’s perception, a mortal who had interacted just often enough with the powers of good and evil to make himself noticed. Andy would be more visible, a warrior on the side of God despite his retirement from active duty in the Catholic Church. But the angel didn’t seem interested in his friend, and although Andy was no doubt trying to trade on his position as a former priest to gain access to whoever had been injured or killed inside, that in itself wouldn’t be significant enough on a celestial scale to attract the attention of the b'nei elohim.

  Murder might be, though, if it were carried out in the name of Satan—or God. Jack had encountered both types of murders over the years. In fact, he’d done some killing in the name of God, himself.

  Or could it be someone or something else? The police officers, a student, the paramedics, the provost, whoever was injured or dead inside? A book, a symbol, a consecrated or desecrated item or place?

  He couldn’t tell.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” Andy said, returning. “It was Dunstan Graeme. The police won’t let anyone in. They’re waiting for the medical examiner and forensics team. Greg says the officer told him Dunstan was stabbed.”

  “Dead?”

  “We think so.”

  “He has a wife.”

  “They’re going to send someone to talk to her.” Andy touched Jack’s sleeve. “Sorry. I know you liked him.”

  Jack felt a familiar sense of frustration. Andy had told him months ago, when he’d been describing his new job over the phone, that California Hills University was located in one of the nation’s safest cities. But no place was safe from evil.

  “It has to be linked to the bones,” Jack growled. “Look at that angel by the Andersen Building.”

  Andy glanced over his shoulder, the lines around his mouth deepening.

  “If mal'akhim are involved, the police won’t be much use.”

  “The Scandinavian Library has copies of all the old deeds and photographs about the university and information about the Gudruns and other Scandinavians who settled out here. Maybe Dunstan was killed because something in there explains the bones.”

  “Or did,” said Andy. “Well, there’ll be police crawling all over the house for the rest of the night.”

  “And it may stay closed off even after they leave.” Jack had been involved in police investigations before. “So....”

  Andy nodded. “Best get back to Edward. He must think we’re real ghouls, chasing sirens like this.”

  Jack hesitated. He wanted to stay to see Dr. Graeme’s body removed, to pay his respects, but it could be hours before that happened, and the ME would cover the corpse, anyway.

  He looked for the angel. It kept its motionless vigil.

  “I guess we might as well,” he said. “No point trying to talk to our friend there with so many people around. Not that talking to angels ever does any good, anyway.”

  Andy smiled faintly. They turned and headed back to the visiting faculty housing court.

  VI

  Richard Grahn sat on the bench that had been constructed next to the CHU cross by the class of ’82, looking down at the lights that surrounded the north campus field. He’d already shot about fifty pictures, but the camera was still on its stand in case something exciting happened.

  He’d hiked up to the cross shortly after sunset, as soon as he’d heard about the bones. This was the most exciting thing to happen on campus all semester, and even though the student newspaper’s reporters were being turned away by police, Richard knew he could use his telephoto lens to get photographs of the excavation. Maybe they’d even run in the county paper, not just the student rag. He’d have to call—

  Something groaned behind him.

  Richard turned, expecting to see one of his friends laughing at him. Instead, he saw a line of dark red light shoot down next to the cross and fall open like two bloody flaps of skin. The space between them revealed a long, winding corridor, its floor covered in bloody feathers. A huge man stepped through, accompanied by a fetid odor that made Richard gag and turn his face away.

  When he looked back, the gap and the corridor had vanished and the stench was fading. The man was still standing there, though, regarding him with curiosity. Richard recognized him. There weren’t many black professors at Cal Hills, and this guy towered over them all.

  “P-professor?” he stammered.

  “How do you do? I’m Dr. Todd, from the religion department. I see I’m not the only one who’s curious about the dig.”

  “No, sir.” He stared. Maybe he was just tired—imagining things. He looked around. The night was scented by nothing stronger than dust and sage. “Did you, uh, walk up here, too?”

  “I thought this seemed like the best vantage point.” Todd stepped forward and stood next to him. Richard glanced down at the professor’s expensive leather shoes. There wasn’t much dust on them; not as much as he’d gotten on his own sneakers hiking up the narrow back trail. But the
professor’s soles did look muddy, as though he’d stepped on something wet, and several small feathers clung to them. “Has anything interesting happened?”

  “Not much.” Richard turned his attention back to the lights. “They put up those barriers and dug up a bunch more bones. They’re being really slow and careful, like CSI. They must be human bones. They wouldn’t make a fuss over animal bones, would they?”

  “I expect not.”

  Richard was pleased to have his guess confirmed. He’d definitely be able to sell his photos to the county paper.

  “Is that a telephoto lens?” Todd asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve been taking photos for the Clarion. Go ahead and look, but don’t mess up the focus.”

  “Of course not.” Todd leaned over the camera, looking through the viewer. “Oh, yes, those are definitely human.”

  “Do you think it’s, like, an old Indian burial ground?”

  Todd laughed, a rich, baritone sound.

  “You’ve been watching too many horror movies. If that’s a graveyard at all, it’s probably one of the old Scandinavian settlers’ plots.”

  “Wouldn’t there be coffins?”

  “Perhaps. The wood may have fallen apart, however, between the winter storms, the summer heat, and the odd earthquake or two.” The professor spoke absently as he moved the camera to look at another part of the dig. “I don’t know. They might have been buried naked, amen.”

  Richard looked at him curiously. Amen? “Is being buried naked some kind of religious thing?”

  “I would say it’s more likely to indicate an absence of religion,” Todd replied, moving the camera back to its original position and standing. “Even in the most primitive cultures, corpses are usually interred with some sort of covering.”

  “Maybe the shrouds rotted?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “So, what are you thinking? If it’s not a graveyard, is it like a serial killer’s hiding place or something?” Richard made the suggestion half-seriously, half-jokingly, expecting the professor to brush it off. Instead, the tall man cocked his head, regarding the scene below them with a faint air of puzzlement.

  “It’s possible,” he repeated.

  “Whoa.” Richard jumped to his feet, checked the viewfinder, and snapped another photograph, just to do something with his hands. “So this could be a real mystery.”

  “It’s definitely a mystery.” Todd was silent a moment. “Yes, I see them, amen.”

  “See who?” Richard looked around for someone new on the scene.

  “Watchers.” Todd’s voice suddenly went strange on the last syllable of the word. “Watchers....”

  “Like us?”

  “Be careful up here.” Todd made an abrupt turn and began to stride away. “There’s blood in the air.”

  That was creepy. Richard yanked his jacket more closely around his shoulders.

  “Uh, okay. I’ll be careful. You, too, professor.”

  The big man was already lost in the night.

  Richard looked down at where the professor been standing and picked up one of the feathers. There was blood and torn skin on the quill. Dr. Todd must have stepped on a dead bird on his way up the hill.

  Deciding that was what he’d smelled, Richard dropped the feather and wiped his hand on his jeans, looking down at the dig again. Somebody new was walking up. He looked through the camera’s telephoto lens and refocused.

  VII

  “Another guy from the university,” Jackson said tersely, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Walt Clancy groaned and finished the last of his lukewarm cup of coffee.

  He’d already spoken to the university president, who’d been satisfied to take a quick look at the site and ask to be kept informed. Then, half an hour later, he’d been buttonholed by the university public relations officer, who’d pestered him until he’d promised that nobody would make any statements to the press until daybreak. The campus pastor had dropped by, too, but Clancy had managed to brush him off, as he had the reporters. In his previous job, he’d had to deal with the much more aggressive Los Angeles press corps, so he’d been quick to set up tall wooden barriers around the site to discourage gawkers.

  “Bring him around,” he said without enthusiasm.

  The man who joined him was slender and handsome, with distinguished silver hair and a face that carried its years well. He pulled off his gloves and held out a manicured hand.

  “How do you do, Detective? I’m Gregory Penemue, the university provost.”

  They shook hands while Clancy tried to remember what a provost was. Something well-paid, apparently.

  “I can’t tell you what we’ve found here, because I don’t know myself yet,” he said. “Forensics is still taking a look at the bones.”

  “Can you tell me whether it may have been a recent crime, at least?” Penemue asked.

  “Well, the bones might have been in the ground for a few years,” Clancy said, keeping his answer vague. “And we don’t know if any crime was committed at all. This might be some rancher’s graveyard.” That wouldn’t explain the malformed state of the bones, but Clancy was relying on forensics to explain that eerie little puzzle.

  “Are the bones human?”

  “It’s still a little early to tell.” In fact, he knew they were human, but he preferred to express a reasonable amount of doubt until an official statement was released.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could see the site more closely?”

  “We’d like to keep nonessential personnel away from the dig, sir. The team’s going over everything very carefully. If it turns out a crime was committed, we wouldn’t want some defense attorney down the road accusing us of polluting the crime scene.”

  “Ah. Of course.” Penemue seemed to understand, and Clancy blessed the recent popularity of police procedurals. On the one hand, they’d raised the public’s expectation of case closure to unrealistic levels, but on the other, they’d made it easy to invoke the magical word "forensics" and keep people away from a scene. Nobody wanted his DNA involved in a murder investigation. “I was told the bones were found fifteen feet or so below the surface,” the provost continued.

  “They were pretty deep. Of course, if this was some old graveyard, the ground would have shifted in the last fifty years or so.”

  Penemue’s pale eyes searched the ground as if trying to see below its surface.

  “I assume you know that there was a murder on campus tonight?”

  Clancy crumpled up his Styrofoam coffee cup and threw it into a garbage sack tied to one corner of the field table.

  “I heard about it.”

  “I’m afraid that unearthing these bones may awaken something unpleasant.”

  Clancy sighed.

  “You think some killer might have come out of retirement now that his old kills have been found? That’s Hollywood fantasy, sir. We’re keeping a police presence here as a matter of form, but it wouldn’t surprise me if this dig gets handed over to the archaeologists in another day or two. Does the university have an archaeology department?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Too bad. This is probably nothing but an interesting piece of local history.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s that.”

  People were stirring next to the pit, and Clancy frowned.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Penemue, we’ve got work to do.”

  “Hey, Clancy! Take a look at this!”

  “I’ll let myself out,” Penemue said. Clancy hesitated. Then, hearing the voices rising, he abandoned the provost and hurried to join his officers.

  “What is it?” he demanded, crouching at the edge of the pit.

  “First sign of an identifying mark we’ve found so far—maybe some kind of jewelry?” A woman in a dark blue forensics jacket held it up in gloved hands, tilting it back and forth. “A medallion?”

  The clay disc was wider than her palm, with incisions in it. The dirt on its face had already been brushed away,
revealing what looked like the letters SAN around the edges.

  “What does that say?” Clancy asked.

  “It could be a grave marker,” one of the other technicians suggested, craning his neck to take a look at it. “Someone’s name?”

  A soft brush was handed over. Everyone leaned forward to watch as the first technician swept away more of the clinging dirt.

  “I think you’re right,” she said. “These look like crosses, in the middle.”

  “S-A-N-D-R-O...”

  “Hey!” Another shout. “I found one, too!”

  Clancy nodded, pleased. At last, real clues; something they could talk about at the press conference tomorrow.

  “Careful—”

  “Shit!”

  “Watch what you’re doing!” he roared, standing on the edge of the pit. Two of the workers were kneeling and picking up fragments of clay.

  “It was already broken,” one said, defensively. “Nothing but damp dirt holding it together.”

  “From now on, keep the clay matrix intact around them,” the chief technician snapped.

  “Sandromaliu?” The forensics officer looked up. “Is that Greek?”

  “Maybe it’s a name. Sandro Maliu.”

  “It is a name and a label,” said an unwelcome voice. Clancy turned, annoyed, to see Penemue standing behind him.

  “Sir, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Neither should you.” Penemue lifted his pale grey eyes. “The earth is about to move.”

  “An earthquake?” Clancy looked over his shoulder. “I didn’t feel anything.”

  “Here.” Penemue slid next to him and held out a hand to the woman with the seal. “Get out of the hole.”

  “Detective?” She looked at him for directions.

  “Wait!” The chief technician of the forensics team lifted the medallion from her hand and revolved it. “He’s right. It’s Andromalius. Andro Malius.”

  “Yes,” Penemue said, continuing to hold out his hand. “You need to leave now.”