If she waited long enough, she might be able to make it across the street and to the river. From there – Rivertown, perhaps. She might be able to find a boat heading downriver to Kingsport or Martin’s Beach. It wasn’t the train, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Getting out of Arkham was the important thing.
Whitlock had obviously convinced the police that she was connected to the robbery in some way. Otherwise, why would they have come looking for her? That they might not be on her trail never entered her mind. Coincidence was a fine thing, but this wasn’t it. She might have thought it an omen, if she believed in such things.
Despite what some of her clients insisted, omens and mysticism were nothing but hokum. And yet there had been things she was at a loss to explain. The way the stone of the gargoyle at Vyones had felt like living flesh for a moment. The sounds she’d heard in the Comte d’Erlette’s home. And of course, that night in the Rue d’Auseil.
Her mind shied away from the memory, tattered as it was. Even now, nearly a decade on, she could barely remember what had happened. Or what she thought had happened. The way the shadows had gathered like a flock of hungry birds – the sound of her father, arguing – her mother, screaming – lights, not electric ones, but something else, something almost… unearthly – and then, the silence. That awful, heavy silence.
She’d felt something similar in the museum. When she’d met the mummy’s empty gaze, it had not seemed so empty at all. She pushed the thought aside. Her head still ached from the knock to it she’d taken. Whatever she thought she might have seen or felt, it wasn’t real. Just like that night on Rue d’Auseil.
The sound of running feet interrupted her dark reverie. She tensed, straining to hear. The echo of bootsteps grew louder… and then passed by, following the tracks. She risked a look through the windows, and saw two officers headed towards the other end of the yard. A flurry of voices made her turn. More of them were making their way down the opposite side of the car, Muldoon among them. She crouched, waiting for them to go past, her eyes on her valise. If they decided to check the car, she might have no choice.
Metal creaked, and she glanced over her shoulder. Milky eyes stared into her own. A wash of fetid breath rolled over her as rotten teeth gnashed behind frayed lips. Then, the man in the black coat was scuttling towards her in a way that sent a shiver of repulsion through her. She reacted on instinct, much as she had with Muldoon. Her valise came up and the slouch hat went flying.
Pale hands darted for her throat. She saw a mottled scalp, and wisps of patchy hair the color of grave moss. Then she was falling back, driving her heels up into the chest of her attacker. He fumbled backwards with a peculiar groan, as if he were unable to draw enough air into his lungs. She scrambled to her feet, valise held protectively before her.
“What do you want?” she hissed, in a low voice.
“Not… leave…” he gurgled. In the shadows of the car, it was hard to make him out. Despite that, her skin crawled as he took a herky-jerky step towards her. “You… not… leave.”
“That is not your decision to make, I fear,” she said, glancing at the nearest window. She heard shouts and gravel rattling against the track. Her attacker had alerted the police to her presence. Maybe that had been his aim the entire time. “Who do you work for?”
“Work… for…” he rasped as he clawed at the backs of the seats, hauling himself towards her. Bands of gray light fell across him through the grimy windows. His coat was caked in filth and his face had a peculiar, sagging quality. As if he suffered some nervous ailment.
She backed away. “I am armed. If you come any closer, I will have no choice but to shoot you, whoever you are.”
“Shoot… me…” he groaned. At first, she took it for mockery. But it sounded almost like a plea. Another swaying step. “Shoot… me… shoot…” His eyes rolled and met hers, and she saw nothing in them. Nothing save shadows.
The moment stretched. It unfurled and enveloped her, even as it had in the museum. In that instant, she was somewhere else, surrounded by wet rock and shadows. A harsh, blue radiance pierced the dark, and she convulsed away from it. She heard screams, babbling in a language she could not possibly understand, but did nonetheless.
Tsathoggua en y’n an ya phtaggn N’kai!
The bizarre words punched through the dark. Figures moved quickly, running now, running away from the dark. Away from her. She – was it her, or someone else – pursued, eager to catch them, eager to enfold them in her arms; only they didn’t feel like arms, or move like them. Nonetheless, she would take them to see the one who had created them all. That was why they had come, after all. It seemed only fitting that they should be given this last gift, before they, too, were consumed.
She blinked. Consumed? The word echoed in her head, and the moment shattered. Her vision swam and she stumbled back, shaking all over, clutching at her head. She felt sick, her stomach twisting itself into knots. Her throat felt raw, as if she’d swallowed broken glass, and her skull pounded with an ugly rhythm.
The man in the black coat stared at her, a curious expression on his sagging face. He grunted something that she didn’t catch, and took a final, fumbling step. When he lunged, she was already moving, back towards the far end of the car.
She heard him stumble after her, but didn’t look back. She knew only that she wished to be as far away from him as possible. She moved from car to car as quickly as she could, staying low so as not to catch the eye of anyone watching from outside.
From behind her, she heard the harsh grunts of her pursuer. When she reached the final car in the line, she stopped. Someone was waiting for her at the other end.
Zamacona was sitting at the rear of the car. He had no weapon that she could see, and his expression was as mild as ever, but something about him stiffened her hackles. She didn’t know how he’d known where she’d be, but it was now clear that she’d been led to him. From behind her came a querulous moan.
“Quiet,” Zamacona murmured. “Keep watch.”
Alessandra didn’t turn. She grimaced as the mephitic stink of the man in black washed over her. Zamacona motioned to the seat beside him. “Come. Sit.”
She drew her revolver and pointed it at him. She didn’t know why he was here, but she doubted it was for her benefit. “I’m afraid I have no time for pleasantries at the moment. I really must be going.”
Zamacona stood, and the shadows of the car seemed to gather around him. She took an involuntary step back, nearly colliding with the hunched form of the man in black. “You failed,” he said. If he noticed the revolver, he gave no sign.
Stung, Alessandra frowned. “I did not fail. I was not given a chance to succeed. Someone beat me to it.”
“Who?”
“How should I know? You must have heard about the set-to? Armed hoodlums, gun battle, does that ring any bells for you?”
“I am aware. That does not exculpate you.”
“Seems rather unfair.”
Zamacona’s smile was cold. “Fair does not come into it. You attempted to leave without fulfilling your end of the bargain. That implies you are guilty.”
“It implies nothing save that I was planning to leave. As I assumed you would be doing. The merchandise is gone. No reason to stay.”
“You are afraid.”
“I am pragmatic.”
“As am I. I seek the simplest explanation in all things.” Zamacona studied her the way a snake studied a mouse. As if trying to decide whether to eat her now or save her for later. “Our bargain still holds, if you wish it to,” he said, finally.
“You still want me to steal the mummy?” she asked, somewhat taken aback.
“We still wish to acquire it, yes. As before, how you do so is up to you.”
“But it has already been stolen.”
“Yes. You will acquire it for us. That is what we hired you to do.” He held up a finger. “But you will also bring us the name of the one who stole it. As recompense for your cowardice. I have utmo
st faith in your ability to accomplish both.”
Alessandra thought for a moment. A good bargain. “Double.”
Zamacona frowned. “Double?”
“Double what you are paying me. For the added difficulty.”
Zamacona was silent for a moment. “And if I say no?”
“Then I may as well cut my losses and get on the next train to Boston.”
“Then I will kill you here and now.”
The way he said it brought her up short. “Given that I am the one with the gun, you might find that difficult to accomplish.” She tapped the trigger, considering. “Perhaps I should shoot you now and claim self-defense. It might save me trouble later.”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“As I said before, I know a good deal about you. You are a thief – not a killer. After all, you did not shoot poor Yabuatl when you had the chance.” He gestured to the man in black. She glanced back at the hunched figure. When she turned back, Zamacona was almost on top of her. He’d moved so swiftly it had barely registered.
For a moment, he seemed… larger. As if he somehow filled the space around him. In that instant, he was a giant – towering, black-eyed, with teeth like diamonds. His fingers flexed, as if in anticipation of wrapping themselves about something and squeezing. “You will not be allowed to leave until we are satisfied in this matter. So far, however, I am disappointed with your service.”
She took another step back, pressing up against the wall of the car. Zamacona approached. “If it were up to me, I would take you in my jaws and grind your bones to powder.” Before she knew it, his hands had thumped against the wall to either side of her head. Her pistol was pressed against his chest, but something prevented her from pulling the trigger. She could smell him now. Not just his cologne, but something else – a whiff of rot beneath the flowery scent, like the rank stink of his servant.
His eyes seemed to swell, filling her vision so that she could not look away from them – away from what was within them… stars and things that were not stars. The irises grew and split; one became two, two became four, and four – an infinity. She felt cold, as if she’d been doused in an icy river. His mouth opened, jaws distending. His teeth – God, his teeth…
“To… powder,” he said again.
And then, he was standing across the car, his coat across his arm and his hat in his hand. He smiled politely. She found herself trembling, her pistol shaking in her hand. Her stomach twisted in on itself. “What…?” she began.
“Your terms are acceptable. We will be in touch. I wish you luck.”
He departed, with barely a sound. One moment there, gone the next. The man in black was gone as well. Alessandra slid down the wall to the floor. The pistol slipped from her fingers. It was only luck that prevented it from going off. She stared at the far end of the car, trying to process what had just happened.
“Mesmerism,” she murmured. The word was a comfort, if only a small one. Zamacona was a Svengali of some sort. That was the obvious answer. She’d met men like that before. Tricksters and fakirs, plying the gullible with sleight of hand.
He’d caught her off-guard. That was all. Shaken, she picked up the pistol and cracked it open. She checked the cylinder and snapped it back together. Next time, she would shoot first. And damn the consequences.
But until then – double her usual fee. The thought was tempting. Too tempting to resist. She needed money, and here was a lot of it. All she had to do was steal something that had already been stolen. “Easy enough,” she murmured. But first things first. She had to avoid the police. She eased open the doors and peered out. There was no sign of her pursuers. She slid her pistol back into her valise and dropped to the ground.
As she did so, she heard the distinctive cock of a .45 automatic. She froze.
“Going somewhere, countess?” Whitlock said. She turned and looked into the barrel of the pistol he held aimed at her. He had a look on his face that said he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. “I’d hate to think that I might’ve scared you off.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.” She raised her hands slowly, so that there could be no mistaking her surrender for anything else. “You seem the sort of man who enjoys frightening women. At least from our few encounters to date.”
He frowned. “Now, now… no need for rudeness. Drop your bag.” He turned towards the car. “Who else was in there with you? An accomplice?”
“Decidedly not.”
“We’ll see about that. In the meantime, get your hands up.”
“They are up.”
“Higher, then.” He glanced back the way he’d come. “Muldoon – I’ve got her,” he called out. “Over here!” He turned back quickly. “Don’t get any funny ideas.”
“I would not dream of it.”
He drew closer, grinning slightly. “I bet you thought you were clever, leaving your bags in the room like that. Oldest trick in the book.”
“And yet, I almost made it.”
His grin faded. “Yeah. Maybe you’re luckier than you seem.”
“Obviously not.” She looked around as blue uniforms spilled into sight, including Muldoon. He looked at her, and then at Whitlock.
“What about the other one?” Whitlock asked. “Anyone see him?”
“What other one?” Muldoon asked.
“The little guy, in the black coat. Where’d he go?”
“I was only looking for her,” Muldoon said.
“Who can blame you?” one of the cops murmured, eliciting laughter from his fellows.
Muldoon ignored his fellow officers. He had a pair of handcuffs in his hand as he approached Alessandra. “You’ll be coming along peacefully, I hope, miss.”
“Countess,” Alessandra corrected, gently.
“Countess, then.” Muldoon was the perfect gentleman, as he searched her and then handcuffed her. Whitlock looked as if he wished her arrest was a bit rougher, but he said nothing as he holstered his weapon. “All right, boys, it’s done,” Muldoon went on. He looked at Whitlock. “I hope you got a permit for that cannon.”
Whitlock, looking through her valise, grunted. “She’s got a gun in here,” he said, a moment later. He looked up at her, grinning sharply. “What about you, countess? You got a permit for this pea-shooter?”
“Of course. I am a law-abiding citizen.”
Whitlock laughed sharply. “I bet.” He looked at Muldoon expectantly. “I told you she was running,” he said, with evident satisfaction.
Muldoon nodded. “So you did.” He looked at Alessandra. “Why did you run?”
“I was not running. I was merely going on a daytrip to Kingsport.”
“Via Boston?” Whitlock said.
“A mistake by the ticket office,” she said, blandly. The lie was frivolous, and easy to disprove. But it clearly annoyed Whitlock, and that made it worth doing. “I shall take it up with the railway, upon my release.”
“You aren’t getting released, not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Thankfully, you do not.” She looked at Muldoon and held up her hands. “There is no need for these. I will come peacefully.”
“Didn’t seem so peaceful when you were clocking me with that bag of yours.”
“You startled me. Under normal circumstances, I am always happy to help the police in their inquiries.”
Muldoon studied her for long moments. Then, ignoring Whitlock’s protests, he removed the handcuffs. “Don’t make me regret this,” he said.
“I would not dream of it,” she lied.
Chapter Twelve
Interrogation
Officer Muldoon showed her into the interrogation room and closed the door behind them. He took up a spot in the corner, leaning against the wall. “Sit,” he said. Alessandra did.
Abner Whitlock sat across from her, looking vaguely out of place in the gray concrete square. Perhaps it was the telltale stains on the walls and the marks on the wooden chairs and table, contrasted with his c
lean suit and open face.
They’d left her in a holding cell most of the day. Outside, the afternoon was giving way to dusk. Her valise had been confiscated, as well as its contents. She had no doubt that Whitlock had had a good look through them. She was thankful she’d left anything potentially incriminating hidden in her abandoned luggage.
The station was downtown, not far from the Independence. An imposing red-brick building, it had been built on a slight rise, as if it were the modern descendant of a medieval motte and bailey. It was smaller than she imagined, and there were only a few officers in the bullpen. Two different types of uniform were on display, though she could not say why that might be. When she asked Muldoon, he’d ignored the question.
“Countess Alessandra Zorzi,” Whitlock said, after a moment. A large envelope sat in front of him. Through the open flap, she could make out the saw-tooth ridges of several photographs, as well as the unmistakable scrawl of a French police report.
“Mr Whitlock,” she said, smiling politely. He’d have to do better than a report with her name on it if he wanted to startle her. “Fancy seeing you again, and so soon.”
“Yeah.” He began pulling out the envelope’s contents and spreading them across the table. “Your friends made quite a mess at the exhibition.”
“Not my friends, I assure you.”
“You can stuff your assurances in a sack.” He glared at her. “It was pure happenstance that I recognized you when I saw you on the train. Luckily, the local offices of my firm were open. I had this file on the overnight from Boston a few hours after I arrived.”
“I’m flattered.”
Whitlock sat back. “Don’t be. I’d make the same effort for any criminal.”
“Except that I am not a criminal.”
“Then why were you trying to skip town?”
“I told you, I was going on a daytrip.”
“A likely story. You’re a thief and thieves run. That’s what they do.”
Wrath of N'kai Page 9
