Moonheart

by Charles de Lint

  Sam rubbed at his eyes, stretched his neck, then returned to the journal. Anthony Tamson’s handwriting was crabbed and difficult to read after a time, but he thought he’d found what they were looking for. It just didn’t make any sense. He reread the passage again, shaking his head.

  It will be my flesh, my bone. It will House my soul. Already I can feel it bind me to it. We will straddle the worlds. My flesh may be too weak, my years too many, but I will still live on. My son I will protect, and my son’s son, and all my line hereafter. So long as my line lives on, so long as we stand, bones of stone, flesh of wood, we will endure and redress the wrongs of our ancestor’s evil.

  There was nothing in the pages before that passage to give any indication as to what had led up to it. By comparing the dates of the entries, the only inconsistency Sam could find was a two-week gap between the last entry and this one. Checking the binding, he didn’t think any pages had been torn out. He bent over the old journal, meaning to read on, when he heard the blast and felt the House shake under him.

  God! Not again.

  He glanced at the book, then at the door. Better get this up to Jamie, he thought. Maybe he can make some sense out of it.

  Blue helped Sara to her feet.

  “Jesus!” Tucker said. “What was that?”

  They heard the blast from upstairs, followed by the rocking of the House.

  “It’s alive,” Sara said. “The House is alive and something’s just . . . just . . .” She couldn’t go on. The House’s pain touched her like the thrust of something sharp under her ribs.

  “What did she say?” Tucker asked.

  “They’re in,” Blue said. “The tragg’a have broken in.”

  He knew it. This was what he’d been feeling all night. The monsters had broken in. So now what did they do?

  “Maggie!” Tucker cried.

  He headed for the door only to collide with her.

  “Tucker,” she began. “Upstairs. . . .”

  He nodded. “Where do we go?” he asked, turning to Blue.

  “It’s no good,” Blue said. “They’re already in this time. You heard them. They must’ve blown off half the House.”

  “We’re not giving up now. Maggie, give Sara a hand. Sally, do you know how to use that gun?”

  “Yes, but‌—”

  “Blue. Blue! For Christ’s sake. Pull yourself together!”

  “Okay. All right.”

  Blue tried to think. He’d been gone there for a moment. They’d put too much faith in the House holding the tragg’a back. Hadn’t really thought through what they’d do once the suckers actually broke in.

  “We’ve got to get everybody together and hole up somewhere,” he said. “In one of the towers.”

  “Okay.” Tucker herded them out of the room. “Let’s go!”

  “But Jamie. . . .”

  “Let’s just get moving.”

  Jesus, Tucker thought. What he wouldn’t give for his squad right now.

  Sally went out first, followed by Maggie and Sara. Tucker looked at Blue. Don’t go to pieces on me now, he thought.

  “I’m okay now,” Blue said, reading the look on Tucker’s face.

  He went out the door with Tucker bringing up the rear. Ahead of them, Sally gave a startled yelp. Blue pushed ahead, his rifle leveled, and saw it was Jamie. He took one look at Jamie’s face and the last vestiges of shock drained from him. Somebody was going to burn tonight!

  “What happened to you?” he asked Jamie.

  “Gannon and . . . the other guy. They . . . it doesn’t matter. The creatures are in. They’re . . .”

  “We know, Jamie.”

  For the first time, Jamie saw who Maggie was supporting.

  “Sara!”

  He started for her when Tucker bellowed: “Let’s move!”

  Blue led them down the hall. Glancing over his shoulder, Tucker caught a glimpse of motion at the other end of the hall. Jesus H. Christ! It was Hengwr. He took a step in the old man’s direction, then saw the tragg’a swarming behind the wizard. Blue and the others were turning a corner ahead of Tucker. The Inspector hesitated, then headed after them. He didn’t want to risk a shot down the hall for fear of hitting Hengwr. But he wasn’t going to hang about waiting for him either. Sucker got them into this mess in the first place.

  They picked up Sam as they rounded a second corner and made the safety of Sara’s tower without running into the tragg’a. When everyone was in‌—thank God the towers only had one entrance each, Tucker thought‌—he took up a stand by the door. Inventory time. Who was missing? Gannon and Chevier. Well, fuck them. Traupman. Jesus! And the gardener‌—what the hell was his name? Fred.

  Tucker stared at the corner they’d just come around, but Hengwr never showed. What came first was the smell of the creatures, rolling down the hallway ahead of them. Then the first tragg’a shuffled into view.

  “Give me some room,” Blue said in the Inspector’s ear.

  Tucker moved to one side. The big Weatherby boomed once and the first tragg’a was thrown against the wall behind it when the bullet hit it. Blue worked the bolt again and shot the second creature. When a third and fourth rounded the corner, Tucker opened up. He emptied his gun, then pushed Blue back inside and slammed the big oak door shut.

  “The dresser,” he said.

  With Maggie and Blue’s help, he manhandled it in front of the door, added a chest on top of it and a table in front of the dresser. While Blue stood in front of the makeshift barricade, Tucker turned to face the room, reloading his .38. Jamie was slumped on a couch, all strength drained out of him. His face was bruised, one eye swollen shut, dried blood caked in his beard. Sara sat beside him, holding his hand. Sally stood facing the window, the handgun Blue had given her large in her trembling hands.

  Lastly he looked at Maggie. She was holding up well, but there was a grim look in her eyes that Tucker wished he’d never had to see.

  “I’m sorry it had to be like this,” he began, but she shook her head.

  “It’s not your fault I’m here, Tucker.”

  “Never could talk you out of anything anyway,” he said.

  Her lips shaped a smile that never touched her eyes. Her knuckles were white around the handle of the Margolin, but her hand was firm.

  The tragg’a reached the door. They clawed at its wood and filled the hall with the terrible din of their howling. It might hold them for awhile, Blue thought. But what about when the big cheese showed up? What the hell were they going to do then?

  “I thought we’d make it,” Blue said without turning. “Through all the shit, I really thought we’d pull through.”

  “We’re not dead yet,” Tucker said.

  “No,” Blue agreed. “Not yet.”

  He felt like firing a couple of rounds through the door, just to discourage the creatures a bit, but didn’t want to waste the shells. When they broke through he wanted to take as many of them as he could before they took him down. He especially wanted a shot left for this Dread-whatever-the-hell-it-was that Sara had spoken of.

  He glanced at where she was sitting beside Jamie. She was looking better, head lifted, a fierce look in her eyes. She looked different‌—all duded up in her Indian gear. Looked good.

  “Listen,” Sara said.

  “I can hear them,” he said.

  “No. Listen.”

  But he didn’t know what she meant. He didn’t know that it was her taw reaching out that let her hear . . . beyond the cacophony of the tragg’a, beyond the weird moaning of the House, beyond the railings of Mal’ek’a as he stalked the corridors that were empty of life save for his own creatures. Beyond all that, Sara heard the sound of drumming.

  Chapter Six

  11:15, Friday morning.

  Madison left his car in the parking lot at the Riverside Hospital and, after checking in at the information desk, found his way to the room where Dan Collins was. The antiseptic smell of the hospital followed him up the elevator and down the corri
dor, making him nervous.

  Collins was smoking a cigarette and staring up at the ceiling when Madison came through the door. His hand was wrapped in white gauze and lay stiffly at his side. Madison took the chair near the head of the bed, laid his cane on the floor and massaged his thigh.

  “Good morning, Dan,” he said. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Rotten.” Collins grinned and butted out his cigarette. “This place is driving me batty. Think you can pull a few strings and get me out of here? Christ! It was only a burn.”

  “That’s why I’m here. The doctor’s signing you out at noon.”

  “Did you talk to Williams?” Collins asked. “Has he decided to reconsider closing down the operation?”

  “I didn’t ask him to.”

  “But . . .”

  “Whatever’s going down,” Madison said, “the Solicitor General’s in the thick of it. He’s got to be. So I’m not going back to him without something hard I can show‌—something that he doesn’t dare ignore. Until then, I’m playing it like he wants it. The PRB’s shut down. Transfers are in effect as of Monday morning. And the files are all boxed in my office, waiting to be sent down to Archives.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “We? You’re going home. You’re out of this, Dan. I’m‌—”

  “No way I’m out of it,” Collins said firmly. “You got anybody to lend you a hand?”

  “No. But‌—”

  “Shit, Wally. You haven’t been on the street in years. You can’t just waltz around out there expecting everything to fall neatly into place. When was the last time you fired that .38 of yours?”

  Madison glanced down at the bulge under his left armpit. “It shows that bad, eh?”

  “It shows if you’re looking for it,” Collins said. “When was the last time you used it?”

  Madison shrugged. “I don’t know. Out in the practice range, I suppose. Last spring, maybe.”

  Collins shook his head. He took out a cigarette one-handedly, tossed the package onto the table beside his bed and picked up his lighter. “So what’s our plan, Wally?” he asked.

  Madison sighed. “Okay. I want to stake out Tamson House tonight. All weekend if necessary. I dropped in on a friend of mine this morning who runs a video store and picked up a camera. Then I borrowed a couple of battery-operated spots from another friend who owns a photo supply shop. Told him I was filming something kinky in my garden tonight.”

  Collins laughed. “And he believed you?”

  “Said he wanted a print of the film when it was done.”

  “Figures. So what are you going to do with all that stuff?”

  “Break another window.”

  “Break . . . I get it.” Collins thought about it for a moment. “They’ll just think it was faked. Have you seen what they can do with special effects these days?”

  “But this is different. This is real.”

  “Yeah. Only how do we prove it to them?”

  Madison shook his head. “It’s a start, Dan. Maybe we’ll be lucky for once and something will break. The way the project’s gone so far, something’s got to give.”

  “Okay.” Collins butted out his new cigarette and sat up. “So get me out of here already.”

  “Call for you, Mr. Williams. On line two.”

  Michael Williams pushed aside the report he was reading and picked up the phone.

  “Williams here.”

  “Glad I caught you, Mike. Do you have a minute?”

  Williams frowned as he recognized the voice. J. Hugh Walters. Respected businessman and political advisor. Patron of the arts. He was also the headhunter who had Williams by the balls.

  It had been his first and only time‌—one slip that would never have been picked up if it hadn’t been for the accident . . . He didn’t know how Walters had known about it. But knowing what he knew now of the magnate, it didn’t take a lot of guesswork to realize that the whole incident had probably been a set-up. But of course it was far too late to do anything about it by that time. Everything. What kept Williams from throwing away his entire career was the fact that Walters never asked for much. Nothing that jeopardized national security. All Walters required was a word here, a favor there.

  “I’m just checking on the Project,” Walters said. “How’s the cleanup going?”

  “We’re almost done.”

  “Good, good. And no leaks?”

  “No leaks.”

  “What about our intrepid Inspector Tucker? Any word on him?”

  Williams still wasn’t sure if Tucker was in Walter’s employ or not. “He’s still missing,” he said.

  “That’s a shame. Tucker’s a good man‌—a credit to the Force.” Walters paused for a moment, then added: “I’ve got another little problem that you might be able to help me with, Mike.”

  “All you have to do is ask.”

  One day, Williams promised silently, he’d end this. He’d expose Walters no matter what it cost him. It just wasn’t the right time. He wasn’t sure that it would ever be the right time.

  “It has to do with my business associate, Phillip Gannon.” Walters asked.

  “What about him?”

  “I seem to have misplaced him. I sent him around to Tamson House yesterday with a few men and he hasn’t been back in touch with me since.”

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “Nothing. It’s just if one of your men should get a trifle over-zealous and pick him up‌—well, I don’t want him on any official record. It would rather spoil his usefulness to me.”

  “That shouldn’t be any problem. As far as the Force is concerned, Tamson House is no longer a going concern.”

  “Good, good. Well, I’ve got to run, Mike. Give my love to Joan and the children.”

  Walters hung up and for a long moment Williams listened to the dial tone. Then he slowly cradled the phone and stared off across his office. Unlocking his desk drawer, he reached in the back and took out an envelope. It was unaddressed on the outside. But inside, on the letter’s heading, the address was plain. It was to be sent to the Prime Minister’s office. All it required was a date and his signature on it. The wording was simple. It stated that for personal reasons, he was resigning his post as Solicitor General. Nothing more. But it would be enough. It would end the nightmare. End a part of it at any rate. He would still have to live through Walters’s retribution.

  How could he face Joan and the children if Walters made the entire sordid affair public? Slowly he returned the letter to its place and relocked the drawer.

  “Bingo!” Madison said.

  Collins looked up from the cigarette he was lighting and glanced down Patterson Avenue. They’d been staked out for about three hours, watching the House. In the back seat of Madison’s four-door Volkswagen Rabbit, the third member of their team stirred. Doug Jackson was a blond, husky man that Collins had worked with before. He was just finishing off a two-week vacation when Collins had called him in on a favor.

  “Looks like an Indian,” Jackson said. “Do we grab her?”

  Madison shook his head. “Not yet. Let’s see what she does first.”

  He drew the straps of the portable Sony VCR up around his shoulder. Jackson would take care of the lights.

  “Doesn’t have a key,” Collins murmured as they watched the woman ring a doorbell. “Just some visitor, I guess.”

  “We’re not leaving anything to chance, Dan.”

  “Sure. She’s leaving. Do you want me to‌—”

  “Not yet. She’s on foot. She won’t get far.” Madison leaned closer to the windshield, watching the woman slowly walk along the House. “What’s she doing?”

  “Looks like she picked up a rock.”

  The woman threw the rock at the window, then staggered back.

  “Okay,” Collins said. “We’ve got her on a B&E.”

  “Hold it!” Madison said. “She just reached inside the window. How come she didn’t get burned?”

&
nbsp; They were so intent on following the woman’s actions that they were unaware that she was no longer alone on the street. It wasn’t until she turned that Jackson noticed the three figures further down Patterson.

  “Heads up,” he said. “We’ve got company. I wonder how they got this far up the street without our . . . Jesus!”

  “They’re wearing some kind of masks,” Madison said.

  Jackson shook his head slowly. “Those aren’t masks.”

  They stared at the unnatural beings, unable to believe what they were seeing. It was one thing to be sitting in a theater and watching the wonders of modern special effects technology make the impossible real, but quite another to be confronted by these things in the middle of an Ottawa street. Madison remembered reading the statements of the witnesses in Patty’s Place.

  “Just like Thompson,” he began.

  Howls lifted from three inhuman throats, blending into one horrific wail.

  “They’re after the woman!” Collins cried.

  Madison started up the car. They watched the woman bolt around the corner of the House, into the park, the creatures following at a deceptively quick shuffling pace. Madison stamped on the gas pedal, coming to a squealing stop as they reached the spot where the figures had disappeared into the park. Collins winced as he put pressure on his wounded hand, opening the door.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” he muttered.

  “Let’s go!” Madison cried.

  He took off at a limping run, drawing his .38 from its shoulder holster, hands damp with sweat.

  “Stop!” he shouted as he turned the corner.

  He paused there, waiting for the other two to catch up.

  “Give me that camera,” Collins said.

  He took the sack that held the lights from Jackson, allowing the other men to hurry on, unburdened. He followed at a slower pace.

  As Madison rounded the second corner, he saw the woman throw herself at a window. She disappeared inside the House just as the first of the creatures reached the place where she’d been. Aiming his revolver, he fired a shot. The second creature stumbled, shrieking with pain. The first hit the window and flew back in an explosion of blue fire. Madison drew bead on the last of them, while Jackson fired three shots in rapid succession. The third creature twisted as it was hit, fell in a sprawl. The second had spun back against the House where it too had dropped.