Minnie looked set to answer when they both heard the throaty growl of a powerful engine. Twin beams of harsh light speared onto the athletics ground as a motor car bumped its way over the rough track that lead back to the Aylesbury pike.
“I like my steak rare,” said Minnie as the car turned side on to them and Rex recognized it as the same Crossley they’d seen earlier.
“I’ll be sure to tell Anton personally,” he answered, watching the heavyset man in a brown duster and fedora climb down from the driver’s seat. He smoked a cigarette and the tip was a tiny glowing bead of orange as he walked around the running track to where the sagging police tape flapped in the wind. He knelt beside the taped area and pressed his hand to the grass, like a fairground fortune teller playing at reading a mark’s aura.
“Told you,” hissed Minnie. “Coming back to the scene of the crime. It’s classic.”
Rex didn’t answer, studying the man intently as he bowed his head. The cigarette end briefly illuminated his face: hard, deeply lined features etched with rigid control, yet looking ready to crack with sadness. Or was it guilt? Rex had no idea what the face of a killer would look like, but if he were to place bets, this guy’s face wouldn’t be far off. The man had powerful hands that looked used to a life of hard work, fists that looked capable of breaking a jaw without breaking a sweat. Suddenly this stakeout didn’t seem like such a clever idea.
He turned to Minnie to tell her to keep quiet, when her camera whirred and clicked as the lens snapped and took a picture of the kneeling man. Rex looked up in alarm. Like many things, the click of Minnie’s camera seemed hideously out of place in the dark. He’d never noticed how loud it was before now.
The kneeling man looked over at them and took a last drag of his cigarette before throwing it aside. He reached beneath his duster and pulled out a long-barreled Colt, and Rex was again reminded of his first impression that this man was some kind of frontier lawman from Cheyenne or Deadwood.
“You’ve got five seconds to come out from those trees before I start shooting,” said the man in a voice that was pure Bronx. So much for the Wild West.
“Hooey,” said Minnie. “What do we do?”
“What the hell do you think we do? We come out from the trees,” said Rex, stepping from his hiding place and raising his hands in surrender. Minnie came after him, and they walked out to stand in front of the man.
He looked them up and down, and Rex saw him relax, deciding in an instant that they were no threat to him. Quickly, Rex warmed to Minnie’s idea that this guy was an ex-soldier. He had a look that suggested violence was never far from the surface, as though he stood in a constant state of aggressive readiness.
“Who are you?” he said. “And what in heaven’s name are you doing here?”
“We could ask you the same thing,” answered Minnie with typical defiance.
“You could,” said the man, “but I’m the one holding the gun.”
“Rex Murphy,” said Rex. “And this is Minnie Klein. We work for the Advertiser, so lots of people know where we are. You understand?”
“Reporters?” said the man, almost spitting the word. “I shoulda guessed.”
“Okay, your turn,” said Minnie. “What are you doing here? Coming back to get some sick thrill out of what you did?”
“Jeez, Minnie, way to go antagonizing the man with a gun aimed at us,” hissed Rex.
Minnie narrowed her eyes and stared hard at the armed man, looking deep into his haunted eyes. The moment stretched until she let out a short bark of amusement and lowered her hands, as though she’d just had an epiphany.
“He’s not going to shoot us, Rex,” said Minnie. “I’m not scared of him.”
“You’re not?” asked the man. “Why not?”
“Because you didn’t kill that girl,” said Minnie. “I saw it in your eyes as you looked at the ground, and it’s taken me till now to realize the truth. No one who looked that sad could have killed her.”
The man lowered his gun and slid it back into a worn leather holster at his side.
“You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t kill her.”
“You’re here to find out who did, aren’t you?” said Rex, catching Minnie’s drift.
“That I am,” said the man. “Just like you by the looks of things.”
“We thought the killer might come back here,” said Minnie.
The man nodded. “I thought so, too, but looks like we’re both wrong.”
“Listen, we told you who we are,” said Rex. “How about you do likewise, huh? Tell us who you are and why you care about what happened here.”
“I’m Gabriel Stone,” said the man, his voice taut with emotion. “And I care because the girl that was murdered here was Lydia. She was my daughter.”
* * *
Though a native of Baltimore, Oliver Grayson’s academic career had truly begun at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. He had prospered for a time within the walls of that institution of higher education, but had quickly realized the future direction of his studies needed an atmosphere in which no branch of research was deemed too unknowable. Oliver’s interest in Jules Verne had spurred his interests toward cultures on the fringes of belief: the unknown, the feared, and mysterious. These were the forte of one particular professor at Brown who would soon become his mentor.
Professor Morley Dean was a man to whom the study of the arcane was an obsessive métier—a scholar who looked deep into the hidden meanings of everything. His studies had been extensive and the wealth of knowledge contained within his febrile brain had acted like a lodestone to Oliver. Morley had traveled widely and read wider still, his expertise in ancient languages and their relation to the cultures that had given rise to them second to none. Regarded with some trepidation by his fellow professors, Morley had nevertheless published numerous manuscripts that were now considered authoritative on the study of language and its roots.
Finding common cause together, Oliver and Morley had mounted an expedition to the farthest reaches of Alaska to study the cult practices of its coastal communities and the mysterious nomad tribes on both sides of the Bering Strait. It had been a testing time, as several among the expedition had fallen gravely ill from a wasting sickness that even a respected physician from Anchorage was at a loss to explain. Two men had died of the inexplicable contagion, as one of the worst winters Alaska had ever seen ravaged the landscape with freezing winds and blizzards that threatened to drive the expedition into the sea. Yet they had endured, and by the end of their stay in Alaska, had uncovered much that shocked them and much that had horrified the trustees of Brown upon its publication.
The bloody histories, blasphemous pantheons, and obscene rituals of these isolated communities and tribal groups were perverse and sickening, with dread rites that Oliver might never have believed had he not seen evidence of them with his own eyes. Just penning such debaucheries for the Journal of Anthropology had shaken Oliver’s mental fortitude. As great an effect as the expedition and its aftermath had upon him, the consequences for Morley were far worse. Their discoveries and the physical privations of the journey had taken their toll on Morley’s mental health, and after months spent with an ancient book of evil reputation uncovered in the ruins of an abandoned Russian whaling station, his mind had finally strained beyond its ability to cope.
Morley had peered too deeply into mysteries he never dared communicate to Oliver, and within a month of their return, he had himself committed to the Hudson River State Hospital for a time. Within a year, Morley had recovered from his ordeal enough to leave, but the Alaskan expedition had cost both he and Oliver dearly, physically and in terms of their standing within the university. It had only been a matter of time until Morley had been compelled to quit his position as Senior Professor of Ancient Languages.
Without Morley’s sponsorship, Oliver had seen his own position become ever more untenable, as though the university was seeking to sever all ties to the unfortunate affair. More an
d more doors were closed to him until it had become clear he was no longer welcome within Brown’s hallowed halls. Nevertheless, he had been given a glowing letter of recommendation from the head of faculty, which, together with Morley’s endorsement, had seen him secure his current position at Miskatonic in the summer of 1919.
This Massachusetts institution had a reputation for academic freedom, a place where all manner of research was conducted and where scholars were free to teach as they saw fit. That wasn’t the only reputation the university had. Whispered tales concerning the gruesome history of Arkham were widespread, but Oliver attributed such attendant mysteries to latent memories of the famous witch trials that had blighted this region of the country in centuries past.
None of these tales had put Oliver off accepting a position at Miskatonic, and the seven years he had spent here had been—with the exception of the Yopasi debacle and poor Henry’s unfortunate incarceration—the happiest of his life. True, there was an indefinable oddness to Arkham, a lingering sense of the unknown pressing at the fragile meniscus that separated the known world from the unknown. Oliver had explored the town extensively, taking winding walking tours through its rambling streets of gambrel-roofed townhouses, past its overgrown graveyards, around the black and looming spires of its derelict churches with lancet windows that seemed to leer down at the curious observer, and over the bridges crossing the dark waters of the Miskatonic River toward the russet-faced brownstones of Uptown.
No finer example of a Massachusetts town could be found in the state, no better example of all that made its people so proud of their rich heritage. The town’s inhabitants were of fine stock, God-fearing, honest, and tenacious, with a healthy suspicion of the world beyond the state line. The people of Arkham were hard-working, steadfast, and united in their desire to see their hometown retain its unique character in the face of the ever-advancing tide of modernity. “Welcoming” wasn’t a word Oliver would have used to describe the men and women of Arkham; “guarded” would have been a better choice. It was as though the townsfolk feared some buried secret might slip out were they to allow their tongues to wag too amiably to out-of-towners.
Oliver had found a place to live in Easttown, a modest Georgian brownstone with modern amenities and appropriately shabby character that matched his own shambolic impression of himself. With only the bare minimum of furniture required for basic existence, the rest of Oliver’s home was a riot of groaning bookshelves stuffed with textbooks, papers, and items brought back from his expeditions to document the peoples and cultures of distant lands. Numerous visitors had used words like “chaotic,” “jumbled,” or uncharitably, “junkyard,” to describe his house. He preferred “eclectic.”
Since coming to Arkham, Oliver had attempted to keep up correspondence with his former mentor, but Morley had answered his letters with ever-widening infrequency. Oliver had learned that Morley had taken a position within the Pierpont Morgan Library, transcribing the many texts coming from the numerous archaeological digs currently rushing to excavate the Egyptian deserts. As time passed and the letters coming from New York finally dried up, Oliver had been forced to conclude that his old friend no longer wished to communicate.
Which was a shame, as Oliver would have welcomed Morley’s help with what had come to light in regards to the correlation between the Yopasi’s sea devil and Amanda Sharpe’s dreams.
* * *
Oliver pushed open the heavy oak door to the Miskatonic University faculty lounge, drinking in the warm smells of tradition, security, and self-assuredness. A breath of smoke from the hearth and numerous pipes gusted from the room, a tantalizing scent of this forbidden sanctum of academia. The lounge was a place of refuge for the lecturers, professors, and doctors of the university: a large, smoky chamber presided over by the portraits of former deans, and filled with faded carpets, smoke-hued tables, and sumptuous, high-backed leather chairs.
An open fire burned in an expansive stone hearth that had once belonged in an English abbey before Henry VIII had appropriated the rich holdings of its former owners. Shipped from Liverpool sixty years ago, the fireplace radiated warmth and history into the room, as though the smell of burning hickory carried the legacy of those long-vanished centuries.
At any time of day, a dozen or more academics with esoteric titles could be found relaxing here—reading, sleeping, smoking, or bemoaning the lack of focus evinced by their students. It was a place where the mantle of teacher could be hung on a hook, and the man behind the title could emerge. Spirited debates could be had here, and Oliver relished the sense of intellectual momentum to be found within its walnut-paneled walls.
He nodded to a number of professors of his acquaintance, and set his briefcase down next to an empty chair. The professors of biology were arguing with the doctors of theology, and Oliver smiled as he heard references to Darwin and Genesis hurled back and forth.
Oliver took his seat and fished out his notes, thinking back to what he had told Amanda Sharpe. His thoughts had been unformed and she had likely left with no clearer idea of what was happening to her than she had when she came in. His theories were, he accepted, far-fetched, but Oliver had seen enough disparate peoples sharing identical beliefs and experiences to discount the idea of a form of race memory from some unfathomably ancient time.
He began collating information from his interview with Amanda, transcribing his notes as though from a field study, extrapolating what he could and establishing points of congruity between her dreams and the Yopasi belief system. There were many points of agreement and many areas where the crossover was too exact to be coincidence. The more he read, the more he felt his excitement mount, no matter how he tried to restrain it. As much as he sought to keep a dispassionate eye, Oliver knew this was a means of salvaging something from his years of research in the Pacific.
“Grayson, fancy dragging your head out of that notebook and joining our discussion?” said a voice Oliver recognized as belonging to Theodore Hutchins, a visiting professor of geology who was assisting Dr. Dyer in preparing for the long-planned expedition to the Antarctic.
Standing beside Hutchins was Professor Nathaniel Eaton, a fellow geologist who had learned his trade at Yale, then put it to use in the oil fields of California. Both were learned men, but Oliver had had little to do with them, what with his field of research being somewhat newer and less well-established than their own.
“That depends,” he said, closing his notebook. “What’s the subject at hand, and what do you feel I could bring to the discussion?”
“Ah,” said Hutchins, a florid-faced man of around fifty years and with a waistline that was rendering him more and more like the planet whose rock he studied. “We’re debating the latest discoveries in the Naica Mines of Mexico. Seems like workers there might have found some interesting crystal deposits in a previously undiscovered cave deep below the surface.”
Eaton was Hutchins’s opposite in every way, tall and gangling, with long, drooping arms that made him look like a character from The New Yorker’s cartoon pages. “The cave is too far down to reach yet, but there’s strong indications that there’s something dashed strange down there.”
“Strange in what way?” asked Oliver.
“Well, the core samples the miners have been taking indicate the crystals have been forming for perhaps millions of years. It’d be the find of the century to document such a place, and it would certainly put the wind up the theologians who think the world is only six thousand years old.”
“Indeed,” said Hutchins, taking up the mantle of storyteller. “All signs point to incredibly large and dense formations of selenite formed in mineral-rich water.”
“Wouldn’t Dr. Dyer have more useful an opinion than I on such matters?”
“Not at all, Grayson,” said Eaton. “Hutchins and I believe you might be the ideal man to speak to in regards to this mystery.”
“How so?”
“Well,” said Hutchins, sighing with exaggerated disbelief at th
e incompetence he was about to relate. “It seems the geological surveyors in Mexico aren’t as thorough as our home-grown ones. Apparently they’ve misplaced the maps and sample charts that correlate where each sample came from. Nobody can find the damn place anymore!”
Oliver saw the punch line a moment before Eaton delivered it.
“And seeing as you are such an expert in misplaced things, Grayson, we naturally thought to pick your brain,” said Eaton. “After all, a man who can lose an entire tribe of Pacific Islanders should have a unique take on such a matter, eh?”
Oliver felt his anger simmer below the surface. Bad enough that the Yopasi expedition had been an abject failure, but to be so brazenly mocked was almost more than he could bear. Oliver was not a violent man. He did not own a gun and had not been in a fight since his grade school days, but Eaton and Hutchins’s disrespect was a slap in the face too far.
He pushed himself from his chair, a vein at the side of his temple pulsing in time with his choleric outrage. His mockers saw the fury in his face, were surprised by it, and backed away from him. Oliver knew he should sit back down. No one said anything constructive in anger, and words spoken in such a frame of mind would almost always be regretted.
“Professor Grayson, if I may?” said a cultured New England voice at his shoulder. A hand took his elbow and a tall, distinguished man with dark hair with just a hint of silver at the temples smoothly interposed himself between Oliver and the professors of geology.
“Templeton,” said Hutchins warily.
Alexander Templeton was professor of ancient religions at Miskatonic, a man who had made his name by unlocking the mystery of how the pagan faiths in ancient Britain had been supplanted by Christianity. His work around Stonehenge with William Hawley had proven vital in the understanding of the monument and he had posited many fascinating and controversial theories as to the original purpose of the great megaliths.
Templeton eyed the two professors of geology critically.
“I think you’ll find that it is a great deal easier to misplace a tribe of indigenous peoples with a rich heritage of moving from island to island over the centuries than it is, say, a geological formation. After all, I am given to believe rock doesn’t move around much,” said Templeton. “Professor Eaton, I believe it took you nearly six years to find an oil deposit the size of Richmond beneath an area already identified as oil-rich. That strikes me as rather careless. And Professor Hutchins, didn’t you once incorrectly identify a series of rock formations in the Grand Canyon, the nature of which any freshman could determine?”
Ghouls of the Miskatonic (The Dark Waters Trilogy) Page 8