He rolled back to the big desk and Becca took a seat at the computer, slotting her memory card into the reader. Within minutes, she was confirming the name of the docked cruise ship and typing it into a search engine. While she worked, DuQuette hummed to himself and occasionally grunted. Whether from agreement with Luke’s notes or disdain, Becca couldn’t tell. As the night wore on, he became more animated, pacing, lighting the gas fireplace, and finally placing his violin case on the desktop, popping the clasps, and rubbing rosin over the bow.
Becca slid her chair away from the computer, rubbed her eyes, and swiveled around to watch him as he tuned the instrument and played a long, pure note.
The cat reappeared and hopped up onto a stack of books. Django opened his eyes, but his snout remained on the rug between his paws.
DuQuette played through a few bars of one of Luke’s inversions, then moved to a file cabinet with the violin tucked under his arm. He opened a drawer, walked his fingers through the file tabs, and pulled out a thick manila folder. He plucked a sheet from it, set it on his desk beside the notebook, and then played again. The music sounded similar, but subtly different. It was beautiful in the way that a lethal marvel of nature can be—a river of molten lava or a tidal wave.
Goosebumps broke out on Becca’s arms in response to the music, but they were merely a surface level sign of a deeper reaction. Something fundamental moved in her, like the iron in her blood responding to a powerful magnet.
“He was so close,” DuQuette said.
“To what?”
“I don’t believe it’s a stairway to heaven, as your father hoped it would be, but it feels like…a reconciliation.”
“I don’t understand,” Becca said.
“Music is all about resonance. You’ve heard of how the right pitch can shatter a wine glass?”
“Sure.”
“Maybe the right harmony can shatter the plane that our dimensions have in common, the great invisible mirror, if you will. I don’t very well remember the young man your father was when I met him, but I regret now that I judged him prematurely. It appears he completed my work.”
“Or you completed his,” Becca said.
The professor smiled and scratched his beard. “If you still plan to step through and find the children, let me add one more arrow to your quiver first.”
Becca bit her lip.
“You must learn to sing this melody,” DuQuette said. “You must use the gift they’ve endowed you with against them.”
“You can teach me?”
“Yes.”
Becca held up a Post-it note between two fingers. “I found the cruise ship, the Aegean Star. It’s docked in Zadar, Croatia. If you’re right about all of this, that’s where the children are.”
“Zadar! Of course.”
“Why there? Why would the pharaoh take them there?”
DuQuette tapped the ash out of his pipe onto the mantle. “There’s a sea organ there.”
“A what?”
“It’s a giant set of tuned chambers built into the waterfront. The waves flow in, push air through the vents, and make music. It’s an architectural sculpture. Part of the city’s reconstruction, and not ancient in any way, but still…the music of the sea would have an attraction.”
“Was the architect a member of the Starry Wisdom?”
DuQuette squinted at the flames in the hearth and set the violin on his shoulder. “Who knows? Perhaps. Or they may have simply found that it suited their purposes. Singing in harmony with the sea. Call and response…”
The old man was lost in his musings, thinking out loud. “It all amounts to the same thing, whether the mammoth instrument was built for the task or simply commandeered. A choir of Children of the Voice, an instrument played by the ocean… Their purpose is clear.” He turned away from the fire, his eyes deadly serious.
“What?”
“They’re going to raise Cthulhu.”
* * *
Brooks stood in the bathroom doorway staring at the pillowcase on the floor. The mirror was exposed for the first time since Becca had moved in. Duct tape matted with dog hair still clung to the edges of the pillowcase. What had she done in here? Whatever it was, it probably paled in comparison to what she’d done at the asylum. But more alarming than the uncovered mirror was the lack of the zipper pouch with the Peruvian pattern on it; the one she kept her toothbrush and nail clippers in. She wasn’t coming back.
“Shit,” Brooks said, taking in the scene. He’d come to the bathroom first before reaching the guest bedroom, but he knew it would be equally empty of her possessions.
“What’d you find?” Merrit asked from the end of the hall near the stairs.
“Nothing. That’s the problem. I don’t know if she packed up her stuff before or after going to Allston, but she won’t be back.”
“Did you have a nanny cam or anything keeping an eye on her?”
“No.”
Merrit had come to the bathroom. Brooks sidled past him and opened the guest room door. The bed was made. The novel she’d been reading still lay on the bedside table, but every other trace of her was gone.
“What’s with this?” Merrit held up the pillowcase by one of its taped corners.
“I’ll explain while we drive,” Brooks said and started down the stairs.
They marched across the lawn to another black sedan parked on the street. Merrit lowered his head to the open passenger window. “We have any sightings of Frosty’s car yet?”
“Not yet,” Agent Kalley said. “They must have taken back roads.”
Simultaneously, all four agents’ wristwatches lit up. Brooks looked at his display:
CONFERENCE
DIRECTOR
He tapped the glass and McDermott’s face appeared. “What do we have, gentlemen? Anything?”
The others looked at Brooks. It was his house. His hot seat. “Nothing. She’s not here. Neither is her dog or her stuff.”
“Did she leave a note?” McDermott asked.
“No. Not one that I’ve found anyway.”
“Do you still think she’s on our side, Brooks? Just too spooked to play well with others?”
“I do. Think about her history. She would never help raise the Great Old Ones. Whatever she’s doing, she’s doing it to stop them coming through.”
“I’d like you to keep in mind that she may not be acting on her own volition,” McDermott said. “Something’s been pushing at her dreams, prying its way into her mind. Isn’t that what you said?”
Brooks bobbed his head side to side, wanting to argue. “But she’s strong. She was keeping it out.”
“If she’s so strong, why did she admit herself to a psychiatric hospital? I won’t even get into your motives for signing her out and taking her home.”
The young agent in the passenger seat, Kalley, was watching him for a reaction. Brooks took a deep breath and said, “I was trying to contain the situation. Trying to prevent civilian exposure to it. We’ve been over this.”
“You did a pretty good job of preventing agency exposure to it, bud,” Merrit said.
Brooks tilted his wristwatch screen away from his face and mouthed a fuck you to Merrit, who only grinned in reply.
“Did you explicitly tell her not to act alone?” McDermott asked.
Brooks sighed. “Honestly, sir, that would be like asking paint not to dry.”
“She’s not acting alone,” Merrit said. “She’s found someone she trusts more than Brooks. Frosty, in the silver Subaru.”
“I have an ID,” McDermott said.
The agents in the car sat up a little straighter. “His name is Anton DuQuette. He’s a professor of Languages at Miskatonic, a known associate of Catherine Philips, and quite possibly a member of a secret society we’ve never been able to crack.”
“Cultist?” Merrit asked.
“Undetermined,” McDermott said. “He translated a rare book that was banned by the Starry Wisdom Church. At one point Reverend Proctor coor
dinated efforts to locate every copy and have them destroyed. We think he may have studied the book before tossing it on the fire, because he used mantras from it to banish entities during the Wade House operation. Brooks will recall that Proctor also used the dagger we saw Philips wielding in the asylum courtyard video. So maybe she still is on our side. Maybe. Regardless, we need to bring her in and find out what she knows. The professor’s car was spotted on the Aylesbury Pike about 20 minutes ago. My money is on them hunkering down at his house tonight.”
“Let me go,” Brooks said. “If she sees anybody else, she’ll run.”
“Agreed,” McDermott said. “Klinger and Kalley, I want you to keep a discreet eye on Brooks’ house in case she returns. Brooks and Merrit will proceed to Arkham. I’m sending the professor’s address to your watches. Merrit, you will hang back on arrival. Do not spook her. Brooks approaches first. If he fails to apprehend her with honey, you do it your way. Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” Merrit said.
“We’ll have air support in the area, should you need it. Bring them both in.”
All four watches went dark.
* * *
“Again, from the top,” DuQuette said. He looked tired. They had ordered out for Chinese and taken a short break from practicing the melody, but Becca could see that he was fading as the night wore on. He placed the violin under his chin and played through the melody slowly, watching her as she sang each note, and indicating with his eyebrows and the tilt of his head when she should go up or down. Becca followed along, her voice raspy as she tried to keep it from shifting into its more resonant mode. When he reached the end of the line, he tapped the tip of his bow against the floor and smiled. “That was better. You’re getting it.”
Becca closed her eyes and massaged her temples. The intensity of the day was catching up with her, and her practice was yielding diminishing returns. She felt like she’d never be able to sing it without him.
“Play it again for me, please,” she said. “Let me just listen this time. I just need to hear it enough times.”
DuQuette obliged her. Even he seemed to be trying to play the piece without any feeling, and not just because he was tired. Handling this music felt like mixing volatile chemical compounds near a flame. When he reached the end, he brushed his hair out of his eyes and said, “Together again,” poising his bow for the first note and waiting for her to begin. When they reached the end, Becca tried again on her own, this time without error.
“That’s it,” DuQuette said. “You’ve got it.”
“I just have to keep running it through my head.”
“Cramming music in one session is never as good as practicing on successive days. It will come easier for you in the morning with just a little review. You’ll see.”
Becca stroked Django’s head. The dog had retreated to another room when Becca bordered on slipping into her mutated voice. Now he was back, sensing in her relaxed body language that they were done with infernal sounds for the time being.
“I can’t stay the night,” Becca said.
DuQuette looked up, with a raised eyebrow, from placing his violin in its case. “You brought all of your things. Where else would you go?”
Becca tilted her head in a way that said, you know where.
He absorbed the idea, wanting to protest, but seeing the wisdom in it. “Surely you’d be safe here for a night. They’ve no idea where you are.”
“Would the children be safe? And I’m not so sure about SPECTRA having no idea. They’re pretty good at finding people. I have the dagger, the mantras, and the melody. If I’m going, I should go.”
“You don’t know that they’ll take you. Even if you sing the unaltered overture as an invitation, you don’t know that he will lead you to the choir.”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
DuQuette nodded and turned away, resting his eyes on the fireplace. Becca wondered if he was thinking of the same other hearth as she was, the one that concealed the door to a secret basement just a few miles from here.
“She’d never forgive me if she knew what I’m helping you to do.”
“She might surprise you.”
“Can I offer you something stronger than tea before you sing in your full voice?”
“What’ve you got?” Becca asked.
“Bourbon and wine.”
“I’m not much of a drinker, but I’ll take a shot of bourbon to numb my throat a little.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes. It did after the chanting in the courtyard.”
DuQuette opened a cabinet and produced a bottle and a pair of glasses. He poured them on his desk and offered one to Becca. “To Luke,” he said, raising his glass. “For finding the key.”
Becca clinked glasses with him and took a sip. The liquid burned her throat and she had to suppress a cough, but the buzz from it was almost immediate. She took another sip, this time appreciating the woody flavor and the spreading warmth. She sank into the love seat, gazing at the pulsing shadows the fire cast upon the ceiling. It was not a cold night, but the fire felt right. DuQuette, for all of his academic knowledge, was a man who understood the emotional value of fire. It mattered not that it was only a set of gas jets flickering through the gaps in a log that would never really burn. It was still a fire lit against the darkness. It was what you did before venturing forth to meet monsters.
The drink relaxed Becca, and she caught herself bobbing on the edge of sleep, Django’s nose in her lap. The melody looped over and over in her head. She heard DuQuette pour himself another shot and light his pipe, and the sweet smell of raw tobacco reached her. It had been a long day, and the temptation to steal a few hours of sleep before crossing over grew stronger by the minute. She hummed the melody to focus her mind, faint at first, then stronger. The professor listened in silence, offering no corrections to her rendition.
Finally, she sat up and scratched Django’s head. If she didn’t go now, it would only get harder to find the will and make the leap. She was as unsure of her ability to confront the unknown as she had ever been—and that was exactly why she couldn’t afford the luxury of lingering on the threshold, pondering her fitness for the task.
“Do you have a large mirror?” she asked. “Or do I have to go out looking for a pool?”
DuQuette drew a final puff and set his pipe in a notch on the ashtray. “Follow me.”
He led her to a bedroom that was as neat as the front room was cluttered. Blue wallpaper and the buttery light cast by a Turkish lamp surrounded a queen sized bed with acorn finials on the posts. In the corner, beside the open doors of a walk-in closet filled with suits and sport coats, was a full-length oval mirror in an antique swivel frame. It reminded her of the one she’d seen on the second floor of the Wade House, and in her dreams.
“Perfect,” Becca said, her stomach churning with anxiety. She went back to the living room for her bag, Django trailing her anxiously. She left her camera on the desk where she’d borrowed the laptop, and slid the dagger into a side pocket of the bag, handle up for easy access. She jotted a phone number on the Post-it pad and tore off the sheet. Returning to the bedroom, she found DuQuette slouched at the edge of his bed, hands clasped between his knees. He tried to smile at her, but he looked as nervous as she felt. She handed him the slip of paper.
“This is my friend Neil. If you don’t mind keeping Django overnight, you can call him tomorrow. He’ll take care of him while I’m away.”
DuQuette nodded, took the paper and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
Django, whose head was cocked as they talked about him, twitched the other way suddenly and barked at the front of the house. Becca cupped her hand over the top of his nose and listened. She knew that particular bark. Someone was here.
Chapter 18
The brick house at 84 Garrison Street was set back from the road, a flagstone path winding between trees and a flower garden to the front door. A green copper lantern fixture illuminated th
e doorstep and an interior light shone through the drawn curtains. The car SPECTRA had tracked was parked in the driveway, a Subaru registered to Anton DuQuette. Merrit parked on the street and Brooks got out. He made sure to close the car door quietly, but halfway up the path, he heard a dog bark from within the house. The professor was not alone.
Brooks approached the side of the house, following a low hedge to where a plastic trash barrel stood beside another door, this one with windows in it. He looked in on an empty kitchen and tried the knob. It was locked. A quick circuit of the house turned up no ground level windows that he could see through to confirm Becca’s presence, leaving him with two options: break in or knock. He decided to knock, but not at the front door. Any sign of complications in view of Merrit were likely to bring him running.
Brooks returned to the side door and knocked three times hard, eliciting a torrent of barks from Django. The dog lunged into the room, giving hell to the door. Brooks set his face in one of the small windows. “Django! It’s me. Brooks. It’s Brooks. You know me, buddy. Get Becca.”
The shepherd pranced in circles, now whining between decidedly less aggressive barks.
A moment later, a heavyset man in corduroy pants and a blue button-down shirt ambled into the kitchen, taking his sweet time to get to the door. When he reached it, his white beard and swept-back mane of hair framed a face Brooks had seen on his wrist screen less than an hour ago: Professor DuQuette, his bright blue eyes appraising Brooks with a slant that suggested he had no intention of unlocking the door.
Brooks produced his ID wallet from his jacket pocket, opened the fold, and pressed it against the glass. “Mr. DuQuette, I’m Jason Brooks. I’m a friend of Becca. I know she’s in there because you have Django. Let me in.”
Enunciating each syllable clearly, so that Brooks could read his lips through the glass even though he was perfectly audible, DuQuette said, “Not without a warrant.”
“Don’t play it that way, Dumbledore. I’m the good cop. Open the fucking door.”
DuQuette turned away and left the room. Brooks started counting to ten, deciding he would wait that long for Becca to appear before kicking the door in. But he only got to seven before a shimmering sound vibrated the glass, a high-pitched female voice buzzing through the door like a swarm of bees.
Spectra Files 03 Cthulhu Blues Page 17