by David Wood
He let his gaze roam the space and the breath caught in his throat.
“It’s a lab,” he whispered back, trying not to let the frustration be too evident in his voice. “But there doesn’t seem to be anyone here.”
He stepped in and looked around. Two metal tables like he’d expect to see in a morgue occupied the center of the room. On one of them lay a young man, clearly dead, as evidenced by the missing top of his skull, with no brain visible in the concave hollow. Workbenches lined the walls, holding all kinds of tools and jars. At least a dozen jars held liquid with human brains suspended like underwater balloons. Other body parts occupied other glass vessels.
Rose gasped. “Oh, this is horrible.”
Crowley nodded. He moved closer to the dead man on the table for a closer look. It wasn’t anyone he recognized. He looked to Rose, and she shrugged, shook her head.
“It’s not the man he killed tonight,” she said.
“How many people have died at this monster’s hands?” Crowley said through gritted teeth.
The man’s eyes were empty black holes. On the end of the mortuary table stood a jar containing the brain, trailing a few inches of brain stem. The man’s missing eyes floated, still attached to the brain by twists of optic nerve.
“Look at this,” Rose said.
She stood by a desk littered with paper and pens and other bits of mundane administrative minutiae. But she pointed to a thick journal, that lay open on the desk’s center, a pen resting in the valley of the spine. The book was thick, the pages scrawled with dense, complicated script. Maybe two-thirds had been filled already. On the open pages were a few small diagrams, some sort of biological shorthand, then at the bottom of the facing page, a phrase in angry block capitals.
DAMN EDGAR! HE TOOK HIS WHOLE BUT DENIED ME MY HALF!
“What do you think that means?” Rose asked. “Edgar? As in Allan Poe? How can he be relevant? Why is his journal so important?”
Crowley stared at the words for a moment, then nodded subtly. “I’m beginning to have my suspicions. But come on. We’ve discovered something macabre and interesting here, but it only confirms things we already know. Trudy is still missing, and we’re running out of time.”
Chapter 36
Matthew Price made his way to the bronze statue of the sled dog in Central Park about ten minutes before midnight. Crowley had better follow directions to the letter if he wanted to see his aunt alive again. In truth, Price had developed a genuine love for Trudy Fawcett. She was a decent woman, smart, and confident. In another life, perhaps she would have made a fine partner. But there was far more at stake and Price wouldn’t hesitate to make good on his threat if Crowley tried to cross him, however much that pained him. What was one more death in the sea of murder that had been his life?
He stood on the path under the bronze statue, standing ten feet above him on a large rock, looking out over the park, tongue out, happy and panting. There was life in a well-wrought sculpture, and this one captured the nature of a good dog well.
After a moment, Price reconsidered and moved around to walk across the grass and up the shallow slope of the back of the pale gray stone to stand beside the statue. From there he had a good view all around and would see anyone approaching long before they reached him, even in the gloom of the night.
He checked his watch. Five minutes before midnight. By morning all this would be at an end. Finally, everything he needed at hand and everyone who had stood in his way irrelevant. Or dead. Both, I hope. And with any luck, he and Trudy alive and well to enjoy all the fruits of his labors.
Price became increasingly impatient as he watched the minute hand pass the twelve. How typical of Crowley to be late. Was this some kind of power play? It would do him little good.
Movement caught his eyes. A figure in a hooded sweatshirt approached along the footpath and stopped about twenty feet from Price’s elevated position. Price looked carefully around and saw no one else.
“You came alone. Good.”
“Well, that’s what you wanted,” Crowley said. “I want you to let my aunt go.”
Price grimaced. How the man’s English accent grated on his nerves. Crowley’s face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, but Price imagined that hard, defiant expression. The man’s disdain would do him no good here.
“Where’s the journal?”
Crowley reached into his pocket and lifted the small, scuffed black book into view. Price smiled, a sigh escaping. After so long, he would finally gain the half he had been denied.
“Come on then,” Price said, gesturing with one hand. With the other, he lifted a small gun into plain sight, moonlight glinting off the short barrel. “And don’t be foolish enough to try to fight me, Jake Crowley. You may be much bigger and stronger than me, but I am not in the mood. I will shoot you dead at the first false move you make.” In the dark of the night, Crowley looked bigger than ever.
“Fair enough,” Crowley said. He held the book up in one hand and raised the other too, palm out. Keeping both hands raised, he ascended the sloping path beside the statue and around onto the grass. Price tracked him with his gun the whole time.
Crowley stopped some twenty feet away.
“Hand it over!” Price barked, his patience wearing thin. He would shoot Crowley dead the moment the book was in his hands, and he began to tremble with anticipation.
Crowley tossed the book forward. It fluttered in the air, covers opening like wings as the pages flickered. Price winced, terrified the treatment would damage something so old and fragile. As the journal hit the grass, Crowley ducked to one side.
Price fired, a reflex more than an intention, the gun bucking hard in his grip. The shot went wide. Crowley hit the ground, rolled, and came up running.
His hood had fallen back, and as the man ran, Price saw it wasn’t Crowley at all. No wonder he had looked so large. Price recognized the great oaf from the underground. He was one of those mole people who were always skulking around. Most of them ran the other way when Price was about, but not that one. He had a curious mind. Price would have to do something about that.
Price fired again, trying to track the man as he ran. But Price had never been particularly comfortable with guns and was no great marksman. Hitting a moving target in the dark with a handgun would be a challenge for anyone, and Price missed twice more. He cursed violently, not only because he had missed, but simply because Crowley had the audacity to play these games with him. What the hell was he thinking? His aunt would die for this defiance.
Grinding his teeth, he crouched and retrieved the journal, already knowing what he would find. A fake. Crowley would pay dearly for this.
Chapter 37
It was near dawn when Rose and Crowley emerged from the underground. Rather than going back the way they came, they’d sought the closest exit they could find. One which brought them out a few blocks west of Bellevue Hospital at the corner of Park Avenue and 23rd Street.
“I was sure I had him figured out,” Crowley said as he helped Rose up out of the manhole. He was still seething about the dead end of the underground lab.
Even at this early hour, there were a few pedestrians out and about, as well as light traffic. No one gave them a second glance.
“You were right about the lab,” Rose said. “I know it’s not much use now, but as things move on we know how to shut him down, right?”
Crowley half-shrugged. “If we get the chance. But if it’s too late for Gertie, what difference does it make?”
Rose frowned at that. “We’re going to get to her. But either way, shutting Price down will stop a lot of innocent people from getting hurt, and that’s a good thing. An important thing.
Crowley glanced at her, chastised. He nodded. “Just my anger and concern talking. I hope you know that.”
“I do, and I’m sorry, Jake. I know you’re worried. But Price is an evil man, he’s killed countless people. Whatever else happens, we have to stop that.”
“And we
will.” Crowley took a deep breath, then blew it out in a rush. “I just hope I didn’t get Clyde hurt or killed. I thought it would be the ideal distraction for Price while we collected Trudy, but she wasn’t there. So now we’re treading water, waiting to hear from Price.” He grunted in wordless frustration.
They purchased coffees from a 24-hour coffeehouse and sat down on a bench in Madison Square Park in sight of the Flatiron Building. They had brought the Masque Journal along, and Rose pored over it. Crowley tried to read along, but he couldn’t focus. Eventually, he gave up and sat staring at the iconic, wedge-shaped building. On any other day, he’d have found the architectural oddity fascinating, but now he wanted nothing more than to find Trudy.
Right now, he had two ideas: one involved paying a visit to the offices of SaleMed, the other to Price’s home. Both involved gratuitous violence. But Price was too clever for that. Crowley couldn’t risk a move unless he had better intel than what he’d been operating on so far. And he was damned if he knew where he could find that.
“I’ve read through all of this,” Rose finally said, closing the Masque Journal. “It clarifies things a little bit. I mean, it’s truly incredible, but it gives us a better idea of what’s been happening.” Evidently, she hoped the distraction would give Crowley something else to focus on even while she desperately wished for a call from Clyde too.
“Can we walk and talk? I can’t abide sitting here doing nothing.”
Thankfully, Rose didn’t ask where they were going. She simply agreed.
“Go on then,” Crowley said as they headed north on 5th Avenue. “What madness has Price been up to? And is it really Edgar Allan Poe’s journal?”
“Yes. If it’s read as notes for fiction, it makes little sense. But if it’s all real... It seems that after the death of his wife, Poe became utterly distraught. In his grief, he began researching elixirs, desperate to find something that would ease his suffering. I’m not really sure what he thought it would accomplish, but it became his obsession. This was at the same time as he wrote The Masque of the Red Death. You know the story?”
“I read it years and years ago,” Crowley said. “About a plague and a lord?”
“Yeah. It was originally published as The Mask of the Red Death: A Fantasy,” Rose said. “Which seems to be a little like protesting too much to me. It’s from 1842, about Prince Prospero trying to avoid a deadly plague called the Red Death. He hides in his abbey with a bunch of wealthy nobles and holds a masquerade ball, using seven rooms of the place, decorating each with a different color. While they party, a stranger dressed as a victim of the Red Death travels through each of the rooms. Prospero confronts this victim and dies after discovering there’s nothing inside the costume. All the other guests die too.”
Crowley forced a tight smile. “Jolly stuff, eh?”
“Well, Poe wasn’t known for children’s stories. But I researched a bit, and it’s considered that Poe’s story pretty much follows the traditions of Gothic fiction and is considered an allegory about the inevitability of death. A lot of people have tried to understand what he meant by the plague in question, but these things always have more questions than answers. Maybe he was just spinning a good yarn.”
“Or maybe he was trying to understand his wife’s death?” Crowley suggested.
“Sure. Maybe both. These things don’t have to be either/or situations.”
“But what does any of this have to do with us now?” Crowley asked. “With Price.”
“Well, that’s where it gets interesting. According to the journal, Poe’s research led him to Price, who was working with similar aims.”
“In 1842?”
Rose nodded slowly. “Apparently. And Price had been around ‘for multiple decades prior to my work’ Poe wrote.”
“Multiple decades?”
“Yep. Poe says his work was all plant-based, and only yielding limited results. The main problem was that during all this time, Poe isn’t quite right, in practice or in his mental state. He was working on his short story, recording the results of his experiments, journaling, and ranting all in this one book. It reads like he had focused in on one place and was coming undone because of it. Then he finds Price. He knew Price as a scientist but had no idea who he really was, what he was, or how he did his work. But both had lost beloved wives, and they bonded in their grief, and then subsequently over their work, and quickly became like brothers. When they realized they were both looking for the same thing, they found camaraderie in that too. It became a friendly contest to see who could achieve immortality first. Finally, on a lark, Poe mixed his latest elixir with Price’s latest serum and drank it. As he notes towards the end of this book, Poe could tell immediately that it had worked. The next time they met up, Price saw right away the change in Poe. He saw that Poe had succeeded.”
“And that made him mad?”
Rose smiled. “No, not at first. Price was overjoyed. They were brothers in arms in all this, don’t forget. So they agreed they would each produce another vial of their particular serum so that Price could do as Poe had done and also become immortal. Poe notes that it would take thirty days for him to complete his elixir. Whether it was due to joy or relief, Price let his guard down. All this time, he hadn’t been entirely honest with Poe about his practices, the human cost of his experiments. As Poe puts it, ‘he revealed to me then the utter depravity, the avarice, of his foul ministrations and I felt inside me the clamoring of all those murdered souls. I felt death envelop me like a shroud and knew I would wear its weight for eternity!’ For all his faults, at least Poe was pretty appalled when he learned the truth.”
Crowley pursed his lips, nodding softly. “I can guess where this is going then. He thought to stop Price from ever achieving immortality, thereby putting some finite end to his evil.”
“Exactly. Among the last of his notes in the journal, Poes says that he realized he had to get away from Price, away from everything they had shared, and ensure Price never learned of his elixir. The journal ends there.”
“But surely Poe knew that Price had been alive unnaturally long already. Multiple decades, he said it himself.”
“Exactly,” Rose said. “I don’t get it. You’d think he would actively try to end Price, not just hide from him. And if he was so afraid of Price getting hold of his research, why did he leave the journal behind instead of destroying it?”
“And on top of that,” Crowley said, “we have to assume he’s still alive. I mean, if he really solved the issue of immortality, he must still be around somewhere.”
“He could be in Mexico or Timbuktu for all we know,” Rose said. “Or he could have died. Just because he found the answer to immortality doesn’t mean he can’t be killed. There are a lot of years between 1842 and now for any number of things to have happened.”
Crowley opened his mouth to say something more but was interrupted when Rose’s phone rang. She snatched it up and answered it quickly.
“Hello?”
“Rose? I’m really sorry, it all went badly.”
Relief flooded her. “Derek, I’m so glad to hear from you. Are you okay?”
“Price took a shot at me, but yes, I’m okay. But he knows the book I gave him is a fake, and he’s absolutely furious.”
His phone rang.
Rose’s eyes went wide. “Who is it?”
Crowley stared at the name on the display.
“It’s Gertie’s number.”
Chapter 38
It couldn’t be Gertie. It had to be Price calling from her phone. Crowley steeled himself for a mind game, then answered.
“Hello?”
“Jake, dear, did I wake you?”
Crowley frowned, stunned to hear Gertie herself on the phone and sounding entirely relaxed.
“Er, no. Rose and I are out for an early walk.”
“This early? You’re on holiday, you know. You could allow yourself a little luxury.”
“I guess so. Are you okay, Auntie?”
“Price is there with you?”
“Yes, of course. We’ve had a lovely time. And don’t make any crude jokes. At my age, I’m sound asleep by nine o’clock.”
Crowley swallowed, shook his head, trying to straighten up his thoughts. Rose looked at him, one eyebrow raised. He gave her a confused half-smile. “I’m so glad to hear that,” he said lamely to his aunt.
“Anyway, Matthew and I were talking over breakfast, and despite the luxury, we’re leaving shortly. I felt bad that you’re only here for a few days and we’re indulging ourselves like this. So we thought we’d love you two to come over to my place for dinner tonight. Make the most of you before you fly off again. Do say you’ll come along!”
Crowley’s head was spinning. “Yes, of course. We’ll see you at your place around 5pm?”
“Sounds perfect,” Trudy said. “We’re going to spoil ourselves with massages and hot mud baths today before we head off, so expect me to be as relaxed as you’ve ever known me when you come around. I plan to have a skin treatment too, so you may not even recognize me.”
“You’ll have to make sure you introduce yourself again when I arrive then,” Crowley said, forcing humor past his confusion.
What the hell was Price playing at? At least he knew now that Gertie had been having a wonderful time while Crowley thought she’d been abducted and held in a damp cell somewhere, suffering at Price’s mercy. But it only made the whole thing more baffling.
After he hung up, he explained the situation to Rose.
