In the fifth room, Ulrich darted across the wet living room, through the kitchen, and to the bathroom.
The bathtub was still full of water, though the tap had been turned off and there was nothing to be seen within it. Ulrich bent down, looking for traces of hair, of blood, but saw nothing. His phone was still on the ground. Repeated pressings of the power button yielded nothing; the thing was water-damaged. Stuffing it into his pocket, he continued looking around the bathroom, cursing under his breath. Come on, there has to be something in here... I was in here last night. I know what I saw. This is where Veronica was killed. Callum dunked her head in the tub, drowned her. I was forced to experience it, too. I felt that painful memory of hers, went through exactly what she did. But where's the evidence? I can't send that prick to jail simply because I had some sort of dream-vision.
Unable to find anything of substance, Ulrich left the empty apartment and headed straight for his own. He'd have to go to the police, would have to think of some way to make them see what'd really happened here. It wouldn't be easy to make them listen, but he wouldn't leave the station this time until he'd talked that blowhard Richardson into digging deeper. He wondered if someone at the station wouldn't be able to pull up a file on Callum; maybe he was a known gang member, or had a criminal record. If so, the cops might be more likely to believe he'd had a role in the murders.
Storming into his apartment and seeking out his jacket, Ulrich stopped short of the sofa.
Standing in the middle of the room, looking not a little bemused as he surveyed the mess, was Jamieson.
Chapter 27
“Now, what in the hell is going on here, Harlan?” demanded Jamieson. He had his hands on his hips, and was motioning to the mess all around him. The room was in an awful state; Ulrich hadn't exactly been gentle during his stay. Cushions spilled from the sofa, side tables remained overturned and, sometime in the night, the cat had evidently knocked over the garbage can and played with the trash. “I leave you here to look after my place and this is how you repay my generosity? I wanted you to look after my building, not tarnish it.”
Callum walked into the room, lingering near the door with his beefy arms crossed. “Now you're in for it,” he muttered.
Ulrich wanted to speak up, to defend himself, but Jamieson continued before he could get a word in. “And what's this that Callum's been telling me about your sneaking into the liquor closet for drinks?” He shook his head, his eyes narrowing in a disappointed scowl. “Harlan, that's a slap in the face for me. Do you understand? I trusted you, and you stole from me to fuel your habit? Hell, if I'd only known, I wouldn't have let you in here.”
“No,” began Ulrich. “Your bartender here is a damned liar. I don't drink, Jamieson. Haven't had a drop, I tell you. Rather, he's trying to make me look like a drunk. He wants to discredit me, to make me look like a fool so that no one will believe me when I go public with what's happened here.” He pointed at the bartender with a fierce jab of his finger. “You know what he did, Jamieson? He's been playing dumb this whole time, has denied it constantly, but I know now that he's guilty. Something happened in this building and he's known about it all along. Because he's the guilty party. Callum here knows a good deal about those murders in the news because he played a part in them. He and his... his gang cronies killed several people who were squatting in this building, dropped their bodies off in the river. He's a sick bastard.” He turned to the bartender. “Why the hell did you do it, huh? Did you have some kind of vendetta against these people? Did you want the bar to succeed that badly? Do you just get off on hurting others? What is it?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Jamieson, taking a step forward and shaking his head. “Rewind a minute. What's happening here? What are you going on about, Harlan?”
From his pocket, Ulrich fished out the inhaler that'd once belonged to Veronica. Presenting it to Jamieson, he continued. “People died in this building, Jamieson. Before your renovations, people used to live in this building illegally. Squatters. Well, I think Callum here must have an in with a local gang. They used to go in and out of the building all the time. They must've gotten tired of sharing it with the homeless because Callum here killed them all, stored their bodies in that liquor closet downstairs. I know that sounds insane, but, I... I found this inhaler here. It belonged to one of the victims who has since been identified as Veronica Price, a young runaway. There's another-- Tobias Perez, who--”
Jamieson looked to Callum and cocked his head to the side. “Harlan, man, you've got it all wrong. You sound like a conspiracy theorist, like a freaking psycho, spouting this junk.”
Ulrich ran a hand through his tousled hair. He was disheveled, looked a terrible mess. Judging solely by appearances, he certainly looked the part of a paranoid drunk. “I know how it sounds, but... it's the truth. You've got to believe me, Jamieson. I have years of experience in private investigation. I'm not just making this up.”
“No,” replied Jamieson, his expression becoming firm. “You're wrong.” Then, he cracked a smile. “For one, it isn't Callum here who has ties to local gangs. That's me, Harlan. And anyway,” he continued, laughing, “no matter how much you've discovered, no one's going to believe a damn drunk like you.”
Ulrich took a step back. “W-what do you mean?”
Jamieson tossed his shoulders and put his hands in his pockets. “When you want to make an omelet, you've gotta break a couple of eggs. Ain't that right, Harlan? And when you want to renovate a historic building-- put in a luxurious new bar, expensive apartments... you've gotta, well... clear out the riff-raff, you know?” He smirked.
Ulrich took another step back, nearly stepping on the cat. “Do you mean to say that...” He gulped, his throat feeling as though it might swell closed. The spot along his jaw where Callum had hit him throbbed afresh. “You killed those people, Jamieson? It was you?”
Jamieson chortled. “Me? Oh, hell no. I made sure to farm that work out to more experienced parties. More efficient that way, if I don't get my hands dirty. All I did was call in some favors from old friends of mine.” He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the edges of an ornate tattoo. “Once you've joined up, you don't just quit on them, Harlan. I've been running in those circles since we were kids, you know that. What, did you think I just cleaned up my act? Think I just left that life behind, after all that my friends have done for me? No... I paid them handsomely for their help. They cleared out my building, took out the trash, so that I could come in here and renovate. We tried to shoo them out like good little squatters, but some of them had been here a long time and threatened to take us to court-- some shit about squatter's rights. I didn't have time to mess with all of that. It was easier to have my friends deal with them. That girl, the asthmatic one you mentioned, was a real headache. Said she didn't want to leave because her dad was looking for her. Said that she'd run away from home because she'd had a spat with him.” Jamieson grinned, his sharp teeth glistening. “I remember patting her on the knee and telling her I'd take care of things, send her somewhere her daddy would never find her.”
“I don't... I d-don't believe it,” stammered Ulrich.
“You don't have to believe it,” replied Jamieson. “In fact, you needn't do a thing. I'm going to make sure you don't break this news to anyone. I've given you the inside scoop. You got to play detective, got to show us how smart you are, Harlan, but now it's time for me to clean up shop, and I'm sure you understand that I can't have you yapping all over town, yeah? On the off chance that someone should believe you, connect the dots...” He shook his head. “I can tell you it wouldn't be good for business. Not good at all.” Waving to Callum, the two men closed in on Ulrich. “Sorry to do this to an old chum, but it's what you get for sticking your nose where it doesn't belong.”
“Jamieson,” said Ulrich, backing up against the kitchen counter, “it doesn't have to be like this. You could confess, atone for what you've done by turning yourself in. It's not too late to--”
“Callum,
we're going to need to mangle him up,” interjected Jamieson, pulling a switchblade from his waistband. “He ain't famous, but we don't want anyone to recognize him if his body washes up like the rest.”
Callum cracked his knuckles. “That's no problem, boss. When I'm through here, his own mother won't know him from Adam.”
Ulrich balled his fists and looked at each of his attackers in turn.
Still dazed from the night's hallucinatory episode, Ulrich didn't like his odds.
Chapter 28
Callum reached for him first, knocking a mug from the counter and smashing it to bits. Ulrich dodged, but there was nowhere for him to go. Unless he managed to escape the apartment, he'd have no choice but to fight. Weapons were precious few. He looked desperately for the length of steel pipe he'd used during his nightly rounds, but couldn't find it. Taking his glass Chemex carafe in hand, he wielded it over his head and prepared to throw it.
Not that the thought of doing so didn't upset him, even under the circumstances.
“Harlan, come over here,” said Jamieson, stepping forth with a jab of the knife. The blade nearly caught the investigator's side, and it was only by a deft block of Jamieson's arm that he avoided being pierced. Ulrich shoved him across the kitchen floor, where he hit the fridge. The shards of the Chemex carafe rained down from above him, only narrowly missing Jamieson's head.
Callum took this as an opening and ran at him, grasping a handful of Ulrich's shirt and slamming him against the nearest wall.
Ulrich felt the wind knocked from his lungs. A potent terror was planted firmly in his breast as the Scotsman drew back a fist and prepared to hammer him. Now that he was in Callum's grasp, he'd have a hell of a time breaking free without getting clobbered.
Before the barkeep could land his mighty blow, Ulrich threw out a hand and struck him in the throat, taking him off of his guard. Callum coughed, staggering a few paces back before yanking one of the knives from the block on the counter. “Son of a bitch,” he spat. “Going to hack you up and feed you to the Walleye. No one's going to find your body when I'm done with it.”
Jumping back into the living room, Ulrich took a small picture frame from the nearest side table and launched it at Callum. It fell to pieces against the wall at his back. Next Ulrich zeroed in on a small vase. Clutching it in his grasp, he sent it sailing through the air like a football towards Jamieson.
Jamieson barely managed to smack it out of the air and avoid being struck. “Enough of your games, Harlan!” he barked. “Callum, get the door. We're ending this right now.” He reached down towards his ankle, revealing a well-hidden holster. “Should have just shot your ass from the beginning.”
Men with knives were one thing. Dodging bullets was quite another. The odds being very much stacked against him, he edged closer to the door.
“Don't even think about it,” said Jamieson, raising the pistol and leveling it upon Ulrich. From this distance he wouldn't even really need to aim; a shot or two from here would hit him square in the chest, more likely than not.
But the investigator had built just enough distance from his attackers to slip into the hallway. The door was pulled open and he slipped through the threshold just as the report of the pistol cracked the air. A bullet could be heard to sink into the wall behind him. At that sound, sheer terror possessed him. His body was given over to instinct and his sole objective was to get out of the building without ending up shot. Racing down the hall, Ulrich cut to the left, passing the other rooms along the hall and turning the corner to the alternate stairwell. Arriving at the metal door, he gave it a shove and stumbled into the dark, only to suddenly recoil.
The light was scarce here, the stairwell steeped always in only a dim glow, but there was enough for him to see by.
Enough light for him to glimpse the bodies.
There must have been close to a dozen, all of them loosing loud, open-mouthed wails from their cavernous mouths, and their skin tinged in blue. They crawled up the stairs towards the fifth level door on their bellies, crawled over one another in a shuddering, twitching mass like crabs in a bucket.
Ulrich's prospects weren't good.
Either he could face the shambling dead or turn and confront the two men who meant to kill him.
He froze in the doorway, the metal door gripped now by a number of blue, waterlogged hands, and shook.
This is it, he thought. There's no way to make it out alive. This is how it ends. Dazed, Ulrich slumped against the wall.
It was the smell of smoke that knocked him from his frightened stupor.
From behind, he heard Jamieson curse loudly. “Where the fuck is this smoke coming from?” he growled, stopping just around the corner.
Then, from the stairwell, something emerged.
Crawling at great speed on four limbs like an animal, Ulrich recognized the pale figure, with its beady eyes and vast brow, as that of Tobias. With an unsettling titter, the scurrying specter rounded the corner and leapt up into the air, smacking the gun from Jamieson's hand. Ulrich heard it clatter to the floor in the moments before his two attackers fled down the hall. “What the hell is that thing?” cried Jamieson breathlessly, tearing down the hall before the barkeep.
Ulrich turned the corner, the mass of staggering dead bursting out of the stairwell behind him, and eyed the gun on the ground. Jamieson and Callum were on the run, herded by the specter of Tobias, who gave chase from the ceiling.
The investigator was going to pick up the gun when he noticed the first clouds of smoke barreling down the hall from the opposite stairwell. He stood in shock for a moment, his eyes and nose accosted by the acrid smell. Jamieson and Callum stopped in their tracks, peering over the edge of the winding concrete stairs and blanching.
The building was on fire.
Callum looked up at the grinning monstrosity on the ceiling and quivered, raising his hands in a feeble display of defense. Without warning, Tobias reached down and gave his arm a yank, throwing him towards the stairwell, where he struck the wall with a loud thud. Callum staggered down the first few steps before falling to his knees and moaning. “B-boss...” A wave of smoke struck him from the floor below, replacing the air in his lungs and inciting him to cough. “The fire, it's...!”
Jamieson backed away from Tobias, his hands in the air. He stepped down onto the first step, then the next, hoping perhaps that he might be able to run past Callum and escape Tobias.
But it was for naught.
Callum jumped up a few more steps, joining his boss, the color completely gone from his face. A clambering sounded from the stories below, where fresh plumes of smoke rose and the first sign of fire was seen in the form of glowing embers spiraling through the air. Ulrich heard the slapping of many limbs against the concrete stairs.
Something, perhaps several somethings, were on their way up the stairs, headed straight for both Callum and Jamieson.
And if the looks on their faces were any indication, then the new arrivals were anything but a welcome sight.
Ulrich picked up the gun just as a number of grotesque figures poured down the hall from behind. They staggered on broken limbs, crawled along the walls and ceiling like slugs towards the two men cowering atop the concrete stairwell. Jamieson had dropped his switchblade, his hands shaking too hard to make use of it, and his legs seemed poised to fail him next. The Scotsman was leaning against the bannister, looking at the landing below with unrelenting horror etched into his bone-white face.
Ulrich dropped to one knee and squinted through the gathering smoke. The sharp din of the fire alarm tore through the air, but was quickly thrust into the background when the vengeful dead began to bark and shout in near unison. The cries of the specters as they descended upon Callum and Jamieson were too awful, and Ulrich very nearly covered his ears to keep from hearing it. He'd inhale more smoke if he did that, but maybe dying of smoke inhalation would be a better end than to go on living with the memory of such sounds. Such sounds as these were never meant to be heard by t
he living. These were the sounds that echoed in graves, that issued from tombs in the dead of night. A language of the dead that the ears of the living could only transmute into dread terror.
Ulrich dropped the gun and watched as a mound of decaying specters ravaged the pair upon the stairs. Callum's legs were gripped by something down below and he lost his balance, falling down the stairs and vanishing from view. He screamed, the sounds of his resistance dying out beneath the veil of discordant shrieks. Jamieson was next, and a number of ghoulish things dove from the walls and ceiling directly onto his person. Falling down onto the concrete landing with a thud and buried beneath the knot of writhing, hateful dead, he tried to scream.
But he couldn't.
His mouth, his throat, were held fast by bloated, pruny hands. His limbs were tugged and his body dragged down the steps. Among the throng that subdued him Ulrich spied a familiar face. Tangled locks of black hair hid its gruesome bulk, but a single, yellow eye looked back to the investigator with what could only be described as perverse joy.
Veronica.
The two men were dragged quickly down the stairs by the hateful mob, and within a few moments, the sounds of their struggles, along with the cacophony of the dead, halted forthwith.
The fire, however, still raged.
Frozen for a long while at the end of the hall, Ulrich stood up and shielded his eyes from the pouring smoke. He needed to escape, to get out of the building as quickly as possible. If he breathed in too much of the smoke or chose the wrong point of egress, he'd end up dead.
The dark stairwell he'd just left behind seemed his only choice.
Rounding the corner, he gazed at the metal door and then kicked it open. The dim stairwell was empty of apparitions, and seemingly clear of smoke. This was the only safe way out of the building.
Medicine For The Dead: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 2) Page 14