Walters turned, book in hand. She recognized it as the one he’d shown her before – the other Zamacona’s journal. “What sort of dreams?”
“Nightmares.”
“Not unusual, given what happened. You were almost shot, after all.”
“Not about that. About something else. Something I don’t understand.” She paused, cigarette halfway to her lips. Trying to remember the dreams seemed counterproductive. She didn’t want to remember them in any more detail than she already did.
Walters sat back down, book in hand. “Describe them,” he said, softly. Unconsciously, he touched his signet ring. “Where are you? What do you see?”
“I thought you were an archaeologist, not an alienist.”
“A mind must be flexible as well as strong. And I have seen much in my time. And talked to those who’ve seen more. There are great reefs of knowledge yet undiscovered in the ocean of time.”
“Now you remind me of my clients. They all talk the same rubbish.”
Walters grimaced. “Sometimes I wish it was.” He puffed on his cigarette. “Humor an old man, countess. Tell me about your dreams.”
Alessandra was silent for long moments, trying to organize her thoughts. She let out a steadying breath and said, “I’m underground, I think. Great… caverns. Like something out of Jules Verne. Or Burroughs. There are… towers, suspended between immense stalactites and stalagmites. I know they are inhabited because… I can see light in them. Bridges of stone stretch like roads through the abyssal darkness, connecting these points of light.” She trailed off, and chewed on the end of her cigarette. “It’s almost like a memory of something I’ve never experienced.”
“Such things are not unknown,” he said. “Do you see anyone? Hear voices?”
“Some, I think. Nothing I can remember. Nothing I want to remember.” She rubbed her eyes, suddenly tired. “Mostly, I just hear a sound – a susurrus, like the rushing of water, down deep in the black. Sometimes, though, I see…” She stopped, momentarily overcome by the memory of those shapes – shapes without shapes, boiling upwards like living extensions of the darkness. Hungry and swift.
Walters didn’t press her for more details. Instead, he opened the book. “I think you are involved in something… bigger than yourself. Bigger than me. Something beyond the laws of men.”
“Now you definitely sound like my clients.”
He frowned. “I’ll thank you not to compare me to them. I am a seeker of knowledge, not a magpie hoarding trinkets.” He tapped the book. “In your various dealings, have you ever heard the term N’kai?”
“No,” she lied. “Why?”
He studied her, gaze keen and bright. She knew that he heard the lie in her words. “What about Tsathoggua?” he asked.
“Again, no. What is it?”
He frowned. “A person – or, rather, an entity. A god. The Sleeper of N’kai.”
Something about the phrase sent a shiver through her, and an image filled her mind all unbidden. A vast shape, squatting atop a mountainous plinth of broken stone. Obese and monstrous, with a face as wide as the moon. A face like that of a toad or a bat or some foul amalgamation of both. She shook her head.
He flipped to a page. There was a rough sketch, in an unsteady hand. A grotesque mask of onyx, veined in gold. “The same mask,” she said, softly. “The one the mummy was wearing.”
“Yes. Carved to resemble the face of Tsathoggua.” Walters shook his head. “I cursed myself for a blind fool when I realized. It had been staring me in the face the whole time.” He tapped the book. “According to Zamacona, the folk of K’n-Yan – the subterranean kingdom I mentioned earlier – worshiped him, or had done so at one point.”
Trying to push the image from her mind, she said, “Fell out of favor, then?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Walters tapped cigarette ash into a nearby coffee mug. “Supposedly, the folk of K’n-Yan went into the dark below the city, into a place called N’kai and there learned the true horror of that which they had worshiped, and so turned from it. They took up the worship of other deities, no less awful but more remote.”
“And your mysterious scribe wrote all that?”
“Among other things.” Walters looked down at the book. “If Zamacona’s accounts are true, and not simply the work of a creative huckster, then it is very likely that K’n-Yan still exists. A subterranean empire, stretching beneath our very feet.”
Alessandra wanted to laugh, to deny his statement. Instead, she found herself nodding. Coincidences happened. Any thief knew that. But this was anything but. She wondered who Zamacona was really working for. “If it still exists, then its people may well want their property back,” she said.
“I did some digging yesterday,” he said. “Made some calls to Oklahoma. All those who worked with Ashley and Freeborn in Binger are dead.”
“Murdered,” she said. It was not a question.
“In a most savage fashion. If this account is true, then the culprits are obvious.”
Zamacona – or his masters – had been busy. There was no doubt in her mind now. Nor, it seemed, in Walters’ mind. “The folk of the mound, you mean.”
“Yes. An ancient race who have lived in secrecy for thousands of years. Why not a thousand more? Can you imagine what might happen if the world were to become aware of them?” He laid his hand flat on the book. “Can you see why they might not be amenable to such an occurrence?”
“Then why put the mummy somewhere so… accessible?”
“I do not think that is how they thought of it.” Walters leaned forward, intent. “Are the things we bury inaccessible to those who lurk beneath us? They give us no more thought than you gave them before today. They put it someplace they thought was safe. Someplace forgotten.”
“Only someone found it.”
“Yes. And what might such people – such horrid, monstrous people – do then?”
Alessandra sat back. She felt sick. “They would come looking for it.”
“Yes, and they would seek to silence all those who might know about it. The workers in Binger, Freeborn, Ashley, Visser, the other investors… and you, my dear. You are a loose end if I ever saw one.”
Alessandra closed her eyes. “I suspected as much.” She fell silent. “Why the ritual?”
“What?”
“The killings – they are ritualistic. The police used the same term. Why? Why draw such attention?” She answered her own question a moment later. “A message. To the thieves. A warning, perhaps.”
“Or a promise.” Walters paused. “Or something else… The bodies were – I hesitate to use the word – excavated. As if they were looking for something.” He stared at her, and she was suddenly reminded of the way Sanford had studied her earlier. As if they’d seen something, or suspected something – but what? She pushed the thought aside.
“What do you think they were looking for?”
“God only knows.”
“Which god?” she asked, without thinking. She shook her head. “Do not answer that.”
“What are you going to do?”
“They will not come for me until I have found what they are after. Or, rather, who they are after. I am a… stalking horse, I think.” She frowned and rubbed her throat, feeling Zamacona’s grip about it. “That gives me a chance, at least. A bargaining chip.”
“The name of the one behind the theft, you mean.”
“Yes. They want the name, not just the mummy. They cannot risk leaving anyone with the knowledge to find them again.” She stood, dropping her cigarette into a half-empty coffee cup. “Thank you, professor. Your help has been invaluable.”
“Has it? I don’t see how.”
“Nor do I. I was being polite.” She smiled at him. “But I thank you for your time regardless.” She paused. “You will be careful, I trust?”
He nodded. “I have encountered similar situations before. I am… protected. But you are not. What do you intend to do?”
“I will d
o as I have been paid to do. I will find the mummy. After that…” She trailed off. “I do not know. I will deal with what comes.”
Walters frowned. “There are those who might aid you.”
“Like the Silver Twilight Lodge, you mean?” Alessandra asked. A sudden suspicion flared in her mind. “Is that because you are a member as well?”
Walters shook his head. “No. But I have had dealings with them. Sanford isn’t to be trusted, but… he might be able to help you.”
“I fear it has gone past that. And I do not trust him.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. And here I came all this way,” Carl Sanford said.
Chapter Thirty
Alliances
Alessandra turned. Carl Sanford stood in the doorway, a crooked smile on his face. She looked back at Walters accusingly. “Is this an ambush, then? Is this why you wanted me to come back today?”
“You Continentals, always so dramatic.” Sanford came in and shut the door behind him. “Hello, Harvey. How’s tricks?”
Walters sighed. “Say what you wish to say, Carl. And then get out.” He met Alessandra’s glare. “As I said, he might be able to help. I suspect that he has as much to lose here as you do.”
“Of course I can help. Why, I wouldn’t have bothered to come, otherwise.” Sanford moved a stack of books and sat on the edge of the desk. “Not after you so rudely departed this morning. Distressed Miss Van Shaw to no end.”
Alessandra faced him, her hand on her Webley. If Sanford noticed, he didn’t seem to care. “I thought our audience was at an end. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
“You were, but I forgive you. You were followed here, you know.” He smiled at her. “I could deal with them, if you like.”
She felt a chill. “No.”
“As you wish. The offer stands, if you change your mind. At any rate, I’m not here about that.” His smile turned thin. “Or perhaps I am. It’s getting hard to tell. The playing field is crowded, these days. More so than I am used to.”
“You have a point?”
“I want to help you, as Harvey said.”
“What will it cost me?”
“Nothing much… just your soul.” Sanford paused, and then chuckled at her expression. “Forgive me. Just a little joke. And the look on your face…” He shook his head. “Oh mercy.”
“Carl,” Walters said, heavily. Sanford glanced at him and snorted.
“Fine. This morning, after our chat, I… came into some information, let us say.”
Alessandra heard the hesitation. “What sort of information?”
“About you. About the thing you are after. Chauncey did some digging – you scared him quite badly, by the way – and found that this mummy wasn’t the only one stolen, of late. There have been other thefts, mostly from small collections up and down the east coast. And the occasional grave robbery.”
“What does one have to do with the other?”
“The culprits. One of them was a fellow named Phipps. A known associate of a gentleman you are familiar with – a bootlegger named Gomes.”
Alessandra sat back. McTyre had said that Gomes and his crew were double-dipping. It seemed that they had been doing so for longer than anyone realized. “What else did Chauncey find out?”
“Nothing much you don’t already know.” He smoothed his beard. “Though you might wonder what the police and I spoke about, after your hasty departure.”
“The robbery, obviously.”
“Yes, but who told them I was involved? Not you, I think. And certainly not my chum Harvey here.” He chuckled. “You see it, don’t you? The pattern.”
“Orne,” she said, softly. That was the missing piece.
Sanford nodded. “I knew you were clever. He’s always been troublesome.”
“Why would he do it? Why steal his own mummy?”
“Why not ask him?” Sanford laughed. “Oh, he thought he was clever. But this time, he’s bitten off more than he can chew. Literally.”
“What do you mean?”
“Private joke. Never mind.” Sanford leaned forward. “The mummy is more than it seems. It is not simply a withered hunk of meat.”
“So I gathered.”
“I doubt that.” He looked at her. “You lack the wit to see the truth, even when it is waved in front of your face.”
Alessandra blinked. “Pardon me?”
“You have spent your life acquiring objects of great power for reckless men. Every jade figurine or tattered grimoire you pilfered was an artifact of incalculable worth. But to you, they were just… pretty things.”
“Most of them were quite ugly, actually.”
Sanford ignored her quip. “And now, at last, you have reached a point where willful ignorance will no longer serve you as a shield. If you do not open your eyes – if you do not see – you will die. Or worse.”
“What could be worse than death?”
Sanford fixed her with a steady stare. “Would you like a list?”
She almost laughed, but something told her it might make Sanford angry. “The mummy is not what it seems. What does that mean, Mr Sanford? Use small words so that I might understand.”
Sanford was quiet for a moment. “I have no answers.” He looked at her. “But I suspect you do.” He tapped the side of his eye. “I can see it in your eyes.”
Alessandra hesitated. “See what?”
“That is the question.” Sanford glanced at Walters, who looked away. “I can find out, if you let me.”
Alessandra frowned. “How?”
Sanford gestured and the lights in the office fuzzed and sputtered. Her hackles rose. “I know a few tricks.” He leaned forward intently. “Tell me about your dreams. Not just what you told Harvey. I want to know all of it.”
“If you heard, then you know everything.”
“I think you are lying. Or, at the very least, obfuscating.” He frowned. “Maybe you don’t even know yourself.”
“Carl…” Walters began.
“Stay out of this, Harvey, there’s a good man. She knows something, even if she doesn’t realize that she knows it.” Sanford stood. Alessandra did as well. Sanford hesitated. “I only want to help,” he said.
“Help who?” she said, flatly. “Thank you for the offer, I will handle this on my own.”
Sanford frowned. “You are making a mistake. You know what awaits you, even if you don’t know its name. I can sense it, inside you. Waiting for an opportune moment.”
She swallowed thickly. There was a rusty taste at the back of her mouth. “Perhaps.”
He reached for her. She drew her Webley. He stopped, mouth slightly open. She’d surprised him. Maybe he hadn’t actually expected her to draw it. “Perhaps,” she repeated. “But it is my mistake to make. Thank you again for the offer, and the information. Professor Walters…?”
Walters laughed grimly. “I hope you know what you’re doing, countess. Regardless, I wish you luck. I think you’re going to need it.”
Sanford didn’t follow her as she left the library. She didn’t blame Walters for the ambush. They were scared, and if what Walters had told her was true, she didn’t blame them. The thought was too vast, too impossible for her to focus on.
It was too big for her. She was just a thief.
She stopped on the steps outside and lit another cigarette with trembling fingers. She had to focus. Orne. Orne was the problem. He’d hired Gomes and the others to steal his own mummy. Everything Freeborn and Visser had told her came back in a rush. It had been Orne who’d set Ashley on the trail, perhaps knowing what he’d find. And Orne who’d set her against Sanford. Trying to get her killed, perhaps.
Maybe he’d killed Visser and the others as well. Or maybe that had been someone else. She looked up. A figure in black sat on a bench across from the library, watching her. She stood for a moment, watching him in turn, wondering if he was truly a corpse – or simply corpse-like. It didn’t matter. The end result was the same.
She took a last drag on the
cigarette and tossed it aside. She stalked towards the man in black, her hand thrust into her pocket, her finger on the trigger of her pistol. When she reached him, she said, “Where is he?”
He looked up at her, but said nothing. She looked around, but saw no one else. Taking a deep breath, she sat. “Our last meeting resulted in an unfortunate miscommunication,” she said. “A lapse in judgment on both sides. I am willing to let bygones be bygones, if he is.”
Still, the man in black said nothing. Was he the same one she’d met in the train yard? She could not say. She sighed and looked away. “I am close, as I said. Once I know where they are, he will know. And then he will have his property back and you may all return to Oklahoma – or wherever you are from.”
The man made a sound that might have been a sigh. “When…?” he croaked.
“If all goes well, tonight. Will you tell him?”
“Tell… him…”
She shuddered in revulsion. She realized now that he was not breathing. She pushed the thought aside and nodded. “Good.” She swallowed.
“And tell him I will expect payment in full, once the matter is settled.”
“You’re telling me Gomes told her everything?” Whitlock said, peering into the interrogation room. The woman was pretty, in a vapid sort of way. Her name was Wilma and she was a waitress at one of Arkham’s many speakeasies, according to Muldoon. She looked nervous – no, scared. He felt a flicker of pity as he spoke. Muldoon nodded.
“Sounds like. She said he was a great one for the pillow talk.”
“And she’s spilling beans why?”
“Said he was supposed to meet her, only he never showed. She’s worried about him.”
Whitlock laughed and leaned back against the wall. “Oh lord, that is funny. He probably vamoosed with the money.”
“Or he got some of what Jodorowsky did,” Muldoon said.
Whitlock scratched his chin. “What now?”
“Now, we wait to see what happens.”
Whitlock stared at him. “What? We know it was Orne. He’s probably got it right now. We go over there, you arrest him, I collect the company’s property – right?”
Wrath of N'kai Page 23
