Dead Demon Walking

by Linda Welch

  An eight-foot wood fence surrounded a small lawn edged by flower borders, but the plants had been allowed to die. In one corner, murky, algae-covered water filled a small pool shaped like a butterfly. Four folded lawn chairs lay on top a round patio table.

  Royal put a finger to his lips and his ear to the patio door.

  He stepped back. “I can’t tell from out here. I have to go in.”

  I nodded. If the place was still bugged, the cameras would, possibly, pick up a blur, then go dead when he disabled them and the microphones. The question would be, were agents staked out nearby or were the devices remote? How long would we have till they got here?

  I waited on the flagstone patio as Royal worked on the French windows. He cracked the door open, and disappeared.

  He returned a minute later. “Clear.”

  The Bureau had removed their audio and visual equipment. They didn’t expect me back here.

  “Come with me?”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, surprised by my request.

  “I like to go it alone with a new one, but Janine’s practically an old friend.”

  We stepped inside.

  One armchair, an empty display cabinet and a floor lamp remained in the great room. Tiny pieces of paper trash littered the floor.

  I caught Royal’s hand and his big, warm fingers folded over mine with a little squeeze. “Okay, here goes. Janine?”

  “I’m in the office!” she called, as if she expected me.

  And where might the office be? I followed the direction I thought her voice came from, to a door in the south wall.

  It happened here. A small room with an oriel window, the walls lined with bookshelves. A Maplewood desk and swiveling office chair faced the south wall, an old wingback chair upholstered in faded orange velvet tucked in the corner near the door. The bookshelves were empty. Janine’s possession had been packed.

  The wingback chair’s front and arms were stained the brown of old blood. The chair got the brunt of the blood pattern, with a few spatters dappling the desk and a big ugly gout on the carpeted floor.

  Janine stood beside the desk, hands clasped at her waist. “Robert is having everything in here taken to the city dump,” she said wistfully, “including the carpet.”

  Even the Salvation Army wouldn’t want stuff in this condition. I took a step nearer. “Hello, Janine.”

  She met my eyes. “I apologize for disappearing like that. It was a shock, hearing about Daphne.”

  Yeah. Way to go, Gunn. “I’m sorry about your stepsister.”

  “We were close. Does she still . . . linger, like I do?”

  Poor women. They would linger until their killer died, and when would that be? I was a hair away from saying Mrs. Fensham would not be alone, she had her husband and son, but maybe it would emphasize Janine was on her own. So I just nodded.

  “And Brian?

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her gaze dropped to the floor. She didn’t ask about Gregory Fensham.

  “Does the name Owen ring a bell?”

  Janine tilted her head. “Owen Grafton?”

  “No. Owen is their last name. Maureen Owen?”

  That got an enthusiastic response. In a rush of movement, she came to stand a few feet from me. “Yes, Maureen, of course! I was about to tell you when that man came in the house!”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Maureen came to see me six months ago. It was amazing. She was delving into her family genealogy and came here to read Professor Stadelmann’s book. I self-published my own little book, what I knew of Edward and Elizabeth, and donated two copies to the Clark County Library. They sit right beside the professor’s book. Maureen read a copy and came to see me.”

  Elizabeth Hulme, the Victorian girl who wrote the journal. She died beneath the ruined temple-pyramid in Nagka when the native bearers blew it up with the expedition’s explosives.

  I didn’t say Maureen Owen was dead, though I’d have to do so, because surely Janine would wonder why I asked after her. Right now, she was too exuberant to consider that.

  “You lost me, Janine. What has Maureen’s genealogy to do with Elizabeth? She’s not a Hulme.”

  She ducked her head and tapped the side of her nose. “Ah, but she is.”

  She wafted about the room, fairly jiggling with enthusiasm. “You see, Maureen wanted to either corroborate or debunk an old family tale. I knew nothing of this when she arrived. She asked about Elizabeth, so I showed her my photo of Elizabeth and Edward, and Elizabeth’s journals - her eyes almost popped out of her head when she read the second. Thank you for sending it to me.”

  I nodded.

  “Then she dropped the bombshell. Elizabeth did not die in Nagka!”

  An odd crawling sensation prickled over my skin.

  “Edward was determined to take Elizabeth’s body home to England. They dug in the rubble for a week before they found her miraculously alive. By the time they reached Rangoon, Elizabeth had regained her health and Edward knew two things. One, Elizabeth was insane. She had withdrawn inside herself. She would not speak. She had to be force-fed.”

  Like Maureen Owen, a corner of my mind said, though it meant nothing.

  “This was punctuated by abrupt, violent outbursts when she screamed and tore at her hair and body. Her only coherent words were a plea to be taken back to Nagka. The second thing Edward realized: Elizabeth was pregnant.

  “Elizabeth died in an asylum when thirty-five. She was Maureen’s great-great-great grandmother.”

  She stared at me, waiting for my response. “Wow!” I said as I thought, Holy cow. The connection to the Hulme family.

  She fluttered her hands. “The factuality of any indigenous population’s lore is difficult to verify, the tales corrupt over the passage of time. But the events in Nagka occurred fairly recently, a little over a century ago, and Professor Stadelmann did find evidence of fire damage in Nagka, and the pyramid-temple was razed. The Lady Morgan’s passenger list, when it sailed to England, did not include Elizabeth. I found Edward’s signature on inpatient forms belonging to the Saint Beryl Sanatorium in East London. The sanatorium was closed in 1934 and most records lost or destroyed. The papers with Edward’s signature are fragments, preserved in the West Grentham Museum of Victorian History in Kent. My conclusion? Elizabeth died. Edward returned to England a broken, grieving man and recuperated in the sanatorium. I now know my research produced inaccurate results.”

  Another pause. I imagined a dramatic expression on Janine’s face. I nodded encouragingly.

  “Saint Beryl’s had two facilities. One, the sanatorium, the other an asylum for women,” she continued. “I believe Edward smuggled Elizabeth back to England. Maureen told me Elizabeth, not Edward, went to Saint Beryl. Edward had her committed to hide the shame of his daughter giving birth to a bastard child.”

  She rattled on so fast I couldn’t have got a word in if I tried. “Do you know anything about Victorian asylums for woman, Miss Banks? They were no more than prisons in the first half of the seventeenth century, but popular belief began to change in the middle of the eighteen hundreds and the physicians of the time decided those who suffered did not do so from God-decreed madness, but from a brain disease, one that could be studied and eventually cured. So I don’t think Elizabeth’s incarceration was barbarous, but her caretakers must have decided nothing could be done for her. She was incurable.

  “Thousands of women and teens who were considered morally degenerate were hidden in asylums by their families. They were pregnant, or wayward, or in other ways made Victorian society uncomfortable. They were not, by modern standards, ill. Elizabeth was both deranged and pregnant with an illegitimate child, and diagnosed with nymphomania.”

  “Nympho - ?” I managed to say before her voice overpowered mine.

  “The idea of nymphomania developed during the Victorian era. A woman could be placed in an asylum for nymphomania if she was promiscuous, bore illegitimate children, was a victim of assault or
rape, caught masturbating, or even overly flirtatious.”

  She fell silent. I pushed my fingers through my hair. “How did Maureen know what really happened to Elizabeth?”

  “Maureen’s great-great-grandmother Alice, Elizabeth’s daughter, was born in the asylum. Edward removed her and saw to her adoption with a decent family on his country estate. Hence, Alice did not bear the name Hulme. And then Edward washed his hands of both her and Elizabeth.

  “Alice learned of her mother. I don’t know how that came about; perhaps from her adoptive parents? I’m sure Edward was displeased, if he knew of it. Whatever prompted the meeting, Alice did see Elizabeth, who became talkative when she realized Alice was her daughter. The asylum said Elizabeth suffered from dementia and Alice probably believed that, because the tale of a young British girl’s romance with a heathen king was passed down from one generation to the next as the eccentric ramblings of a crazed ancestor. None thought to validate the tale, but people nowadays have more interest in their ancestry. Happily, Maureen decided to research her forefathers.”

  Did her interest lead to her parents’ death, and her suicide?

  “We had such a nice visit. We were up late talking, so Maureen stayed the night in the guest room.”

  Janine’s enthusiastic gestures stilled and I knew what would come next. “But how do you know Maureen?”

  Always the bearer of bad news, that’s me. “We believe the same man who. . . .”

  I don’t know why it’s so hard to say the word “murdered” or “killed” to the victim’s face. “The man you found here, we think he killed Maureen’s parents.”

  Janine looked past me and although her expression could not change, I heard the deep sadness in her voice as she murmured, “And Maureen?”

  “She committed suicide.”

  She put her hand to her brow and sat on the blood-mottled chair.

  I liked Janine, and regretted saddening her, but I had to pull myself together and get on with it. I cleared my throat and tried to make my voice businesslike. “Did you see Maureen again, or talk on the phone?”

  She shook her head.

  “She called you that first time, though.”

  Another shake of the head. “She arrived on the doorstep. She was touring. She confided she and her husband were having marital difficulties so she wanted to get away for a few weeks.”

  “Did she fly?”

  “She drove.”

  “And you didn’t speak to her again after she left, or write?”

  “No, I. . . .” She clenched her hands to fists. “When did. . . ? Did he kill Maureen’s family. . . ?”

  “After you,” I said in a low voice.

  She shot up from the chair. “My notes! He read the notes I made after Maureen left. I didn’t want to forget anything she said.”

  My thoughts churned furiously. Did the killer, like a detective, follow a lead? Did he look for anything to do with the Nagka expedition and come to Vegas to read Stadelmann’s book - as I did, as Maureen did - and found Janine’s book, and Janine?

  Her hands went to her mouth and I heard her say through her fingers, “I led him to her.”

  Poor Janine.

  One last question. “Janine, did you by chance tell Maureen about me?”

  She dropped her hands. “I did, in fact. We were chatting, and she was as enthralled as I that Elizabeth’s journal was part of a police investigation. Why?”

  “She called me before she died. Which is why I’m helping the FBI with their investigation. Did you give her my phone number?”

  “No, but I let her read everything in my file and I keep your card in there. She has - had - an eidetic memory. What did you and Maureen talk about?”

  I let my head sag, feeling the strain of facial muscles trying to maintain a calm expression. “We didn’t, Janine. She called twice, but both were disconnected before she could say more than a few words.”

  Help me!

  But I saw it now. Maureen knew the killer’s identity. She dug in her crazed mind and came up with the telephone number of a professional, a person who knew something of Elizabeth’s history, who knew Janine, who might, just might, believe her wild tale. And reached out for help.

  ***

  Saying good-bye to Janine was difficult. She didn’t want to let me go. She brought up question after question, repeating herself, trying to keep me there. I didn’t mind telling her what I knew. You can tell a shade anything, it’s not as if they can pass it on, but I didn’t want to be here all day.

  Finally, she turned her head to Royal. “Before you go, what is he?”

  Like me, the dead see demons as they truly are. I smiled. “What do you think?”

  “Oh my dear,” she said, “If I were not stuck here, I’d think I died and went to heaven.”

  ***

  Back in Clarion - zoom zoom - Royal and I sat at the kitchen table. I sipped a diet cola. Royal looked over my head, brooding, trying to make sense of what we knew and suspected.

  The old fridge stopped humming and shuddered into silence. The clock on the wall tocked with a sound like a tiny hammer striking plastic. Jack pretended to lean against the backdoor as he pretended to pick at his fingernails. Mel, kitty-corner to me across the table, heaved a huge sigh. Mac lay asleep on my feet, stubby little front legs paddling air. In his dream, he was running.

  “Maureen did not phone Janine. She did not fly. She did not stay in a hotel,” Royal said.

  I tried to concentrate on his words, but had difficulty blocking my furious inner musings. “Hm?”

  Royal gave his clasped hands a pensive look. “So unless she used her credit cards for some purpose, there is no record of her in Las Vegas. If there were, surely the Bureau would have found it by now.”

  Right,” I agreed, not all that interested.

  I thought of Gia, who wrote novels about vampires and I’m sure fostered her fans’ belief she was herself one of the dastardly undead. Like a vampire, her lifespan could be abnormally long compared to a human’s. Gia Sabato, who told us to drop this case.

  I thought of poor Maureen, which reminded me of Elizabeth Hulme. Elizabeth, buried beneath the pyramid temple in Nagka until her father dug her out. If Elizabeth was still alive. . . .

  The pilot light in my brain flicked on. Mother of God!

  I ran it through my mind again. I’m good at making connections, but this was extraordinary even by my standards. I must be way off base.

  Daughter, now you are free.

  “Royal, do all Dark Cousins live as long as Jacob?”

  I pictured Jacob as I last saw him, an emerald-eyed adolescent with hair in long yellow ropes, his teeth filed to points. He was called Teo-Papek when Hans Stadelmann found him in Myanmar, the only Dark Cousin to come out of Nagka alive. Stadelmann gave him the name Jacob when he brought him to the States.

  I sensed Royal’s hesitation before he said, “Yes.”

  My mouth slowly closed on my next question, replace by another. Surprised I didn’t think of it before, I finally released it, voice low and husky because I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. “And Gelpha? Do you live as long as Dark Cousins?”

  A pause, then he said with a twisted smile: “No, Tiff. If we are lucky, we will see each other grow old.”

  Relief swept through me. Why? Royal and I wouldn’t be together till our senior years. My life doesn’t work that way.

  “Jacob survived Nagka.”

  “Tiff, what are you thinking?”

  Daughter, now you are free.

  “Bear with me.”

  That’s another thing I appreciated about Royal: he knew when I needed his patience and silence so I could think things through. He didn’t butt in with questions, though I’m sure he wanted to ask.

  This time, my cogitations scared the you-know-what out of me.

  “Ask yourself why Gia, Daven and Jacob returned to Nagka. To look at the place? I don’t see them as tourist types, especially not Jacob. For an insight into their forefathe
rs, or what exactly happened in Nagka? Jacob could tell them all that. And Elizabeth. . . .”

  I gave him a pale imitation of a smile. “I don’t think only Jacob and Elizabeth survived.”

  I saw when our thoughts aligned. His eyes flared wider, his lips parted.

  He reached to grip my hands in both his. “If we’re right, and I think we are, only one force apart from his people can take him down.”

  “And that might be?”

  His eyes were a bright, hard copper. “My people.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  In a midnight-blue suit, iron-gray and blue hair clubbed at his nape, Gareth waited at the door of the High House. I met Gareth when I came here with Royal and the Dark Cousins. I don’t know what position he holds, but he is certainly more than a doorman.

  The House is the biggest construction I have ever seen. From where Royal and I stood on a dirt track facing the central rotunda, the House seemed to stretch across the horizon, portions of the white façade peeping through tall trees. In an unbroken circle like a gigantic wheel, it surrounds a park dotted with ponds, a lake, summerhouses and the small arena where we once watched Lord Lawrence practice swordsmanship.

  We crossed a strip of grass and climbed two shallow, white stone steps. Gareth bowed his head. “Welcome, my lord. Miss Banks.”

  Royal is nobility in Bel-Athaer.

  We followed Gareth inside the High House. A few demons stood about the reception hall, but nowhere near the number as last time I was here. They watched us with alert, glittering eyes as Gareth led us over the smooth, pale, gleaming floor to one of the two staircases which curved up the walls to the next floor. The steps gleamed slickly as if water veneered them.

  They were not as slippery as they looked, but I kept close to the wall. Having no banister made me a trifle nervous. Halfway up, my calves began to ache as if I hiked a mountain trail. The staircase continued to wind around the circumference of the hall until we came out on a long gallery railed by glossy, polished wood. Gareth strode a few more paces and turned down a passageway. Royal could drive his pickup along it with room to spare and the ceiling could be fifteen feet high. Round white globes on the walls shed haloes of illumination and picked out the purple diamond pattern in the tea-green wallpaper. I looked up at creamy moldings shaped like giant medallions on the ceiling.