They sat beneath the spreading boughs of a tulip poplar at the southern edge of the park, the tree’s leaves a vivid yellow and a welcome spot of brightness in the fall. Rita sat cross-legged and lifted out her box of sandwiches and a slice of pecan pie. Amanda sat more demurely, tucking her skirt beneath her as she carefully lowered herself to the ground. A few other groups sat in the park, but not enough that anyone was close to them. Fellow students and the occasional lecturer made their way down College Street.
“So did you speak to Grayson?” asked Rita, taking a bite of pie.
Amanda looked at her. “You eat your pie first?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Surely sandwiches first?”
“Uh-uh,” said Rita. “Back in New Orleans, you go for the best bit first, that way ain’t nobody gonna steal it from you.”
“You’re not in New Orleans, Rita.”
“Sure, but old habits, you know?”
“I guess,” said Amanda, unwrapping her chicken salad sandwich and setting it next to the soda she’d gotten from the drug store on Garrison.
“So did you?”
“What?”
Rita rolled her eyes. “Speak to Grayson?”
Amanda nodded and waited until she’d swallowed her first bite before answering. “I did. I spoke to him a couple of days ago.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said…a lot of things,” said Amanda. “I didn’t understand a lot of it, but he thinks the dreams I’m having are of some city that sank below the sea. A temple or prison or something. For a devil creature the Yopasi worshipped.”
Rita’s mouth froze in mid-chew and her eyes widened. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and gulped. “Say what? I meant about giving you another extension on your paper. You said you were late.”
“Oh, right,” said Amanda.
“What the hell’s all this talk of devils? And who are the Yopasi?”
Amanda took a deep breath and told her what she and Professor Grayson had talked about, seeing a growing hardness enter Rita’s eyes with every sentence. By the end of the retelling, Rita had her arms folded and was shaking her head.
“What’d I tell you? Bad mojo,” said Rita.
“I don’t know that I believe all he said,” said Amanda. “I mean, it’s all a bit far-fetched, isn’t it? Why would I be dreaming of something half the world away? Something I’ve never heard of. It doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it don’t,” agreed Rita. “But there’s a whole lot of this town that don’t make much sense. So what did he say about getting rid of your dreams?”
“Nothing yet,” said Amanda. “He was talking about Siberian shamans and Eskimo rituals, and some kind of race memory. Or something. It was all a bit, you know, out there.”
Amanda waved her hand to emphasize the point, rolling her eyes like she thought Professor Grayson’s tales of psychic connection were all bunkum. Rita saw through her in a heartbeat.
“Don’t gimme that,” she said. “You believe him, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” sighed Amanda. “It sounds foolish, but what else is there?”
“You have any other dreams since?”
“No,” said Amanda, the relief plain in her voice. “Thankfully.”
“Hell, maybe all you needed to do was talk it out.”
“I hope that was all it was,” said Amanda, though she doubted it. She hadn’t had any more dreams to match the power and force of her last one, but each night’s sleep had been troubled by vague feelings of unsettledness, a restless unease that left her as tired in the morning as she had been going to bed. She could not recall any of the dreams of the last couple of nights, and knew that was a blessing. Perhaps her mind was shielding her from the nightmares that lurked around the edges of her dreaming consciousness like patient predators.
“Anyhow,” continued Amanda. “He’s going to look into it and see if he can’t find some way to make them go away for good.”
Rita, her pie now finished, tucked into her sandwiches and brushed crumbs from her cardigan. She reached over and patted Amanda’s knee.
“If half of what you say about him is true, I’ll bet he’ll sort it out lickety-split.”
Amanda smiled and looked up as she saw a group of young men approaching them. They were well-dressed, most in Oxford bags and MU sweaters and blazers. She recognized two of them—Spencer Osborne and Wilson Brewster—but the others she’d never laid eyes on before. They were seniors from Alpha Qoppa Alpha, one of the oldest fraternities of Miskatonic, and certainly its highest achievers.
Spencer was tall, with a linebacker’s build and a shock of neatly combed blond hair. With his high forehead, prominent jaw, and defined cheeks, he had the quintessential Massachusetts bone structure. Wilson was much shorter, with the build of a quarterback, and though his features were also those of the Bay State, they were slimmer and less angular.
She shared a couple of classes with Spencer and Wilson, and had exchanged a few words with both of them. They were pleasant enough and polite, but she didn’t know them much beyond that. They were both good-looking in a preppy sort of way, and most of the girls in Dorothy Upman had crushes on at least one of them. Despite that, she hadn’t heard any rumors of either boy dating or going steady.
“Amanda,” said Spencer. “How are you?”
“Just fine, Spencer,” she answered. “How are you?”
“Just dandy, Mandy,” said Spencer, getting down on one knee beside her.
She smiled and nodded to Brewster. “Are you dandy, too, Wilson?”
Wilson favored her with a winning smile and said, “As dandy as you can be after two hours of Professor Atwood, I guess.”
“I’m fine, too,” said Rita, leaning over. “Thanks for asking.”
“Good to know,” said Spencer. “I was just about to say hello to you, too.”
“Sure you was,” said Rita, unconvinced.
“Absolutely I was,” continued Spencer. “In fact, Wilson and I came over with the express intention of speaking to you both. Didn’t we, Wilson?”
“Sure did,” confirmed Wilson.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us to the rest of your friends?” asked Amanda.
Wilson put his arms around the two boys she didn’t know and said, “Amanda Sharpe, this is Arnold and Randolph Derby. They’re originally from Iowa, but don’t let that put you off—they’re actually pretty nice. Randolph’s the clever one, but Arnold has a mean fastball.”
Amanda saw the brotherly resemblance between the two boys and smiled nervously at them. Neither said anything, and though Amanda was no expert in body language, she immediately recognized the male hierarchy at work in the boys’ grouping. The Derby brothers were there as entourage to Spencer and Wilson, who were clearly the alpha males.
“So what you want?” demanded Rita. “We’re having lunch.”
If Spencer was irritated at Rita’s brusqueness, he didn’t let it show. Amanda flashed Rita a questioning glance. Smoothly Spencer stood up and brushed his baggy trousers. He ran a hand through his hair and smiled at them both.
“Don’t worry, we won’t intrude further, ladies,” he said. “I just wanted to see if you were free this Friday. The Amherst is showing The Black Pirate, and we wondered if you’d like to accompany us to see it. It’s got Douglas Fairbanks in it, and its supposed to be pretty exciting. We thought you ladies might enjoy it.”
“No can do,” said Rita. “We’re busy.”
“Oh,” said Wilson. “That’s a pity. You have other plans?”
“Yeah, we do,” said Rita. “We’re going to the Commercial. They got Marie Lambeau and Jim Culver playing, and we ain’t gonna miss that. Not for no damn army movie…”
“Marie Lambeau?” said Wilson. “We have some of her records at the frat house.”
“You like jazz?”
“You’re darn tootin’,” said Spencer. “We own a bunch of records by Louis Armstrong and Frankie Trumbauer.�
�
Amanda could see that Rita was impressed, though she tried to hide it beneath a mask of belligerence. “Yeah, well, just cause you own a few records don’t mean you know jazz.”
“Okay, well I see we’re fighting a lost cause here, boys,” said Spencer. He shrugged with theatrical defeat and said. “Another time maybe, ladies?”
“Sure,” said Amanda, mystified and irritated at Rita’s overt hostility. “Another time.”
“We’re having a gathering at the frat house a week from Saturday,” said Wilson. “From seven o’ clock on. You’re more than welcome. Both of you. Maybe we’ll see you there?”
“Maybe,” said Rita. “Maybe not.”
Spencer sketched Amanda a casual salute and led his friends away as Wilson made an oh well gesture that Rita didn’t see. The AQA boys moved off down College Street in the direction of Hotel Miskatonic, play-punching one another and miming baseball pitches. Amanda watched them go, unable to contain the delicious frisson of excitement at the idea that such popular boys might be interested in them.
She turned to Rita, who was staring at her, ready for her questions.
“What?” said Rita.
“You know fine well what, Rita Young,” said Amanda. “What was that all about?”
“You want to go to that damn movie?”
“No, I said I’d go to the Commercial with you.”
“Good,” said Rita, watching as the boys disappeared around the corner. “You know, rich kids like that, they only after you for your body.”
“Maybe I’d like that,” said Amanda.
Rita laughed. “Look at you,” she said between giggles. “One offer of a movie and you get all blushy.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Amanda, her cheeks reddening. “It was just a movie, it wasn’t like a date or anything.”
“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that,” snickered Rita.
* * *
Aunt Lucy’s was crowded. A varied clientele sat on the stools at the counter tucking into their midday meals. Catching the overspill from the Grafton, you could get a thirty-five cent lunch at Lucy’s that was passable and filling, if you didn’t mind the cracked crockery and cutlery that maybe wasn’t as thoroughly washed as you might like it.
“Not exactly Anton’s, is it?” said Minnie, staring at the pile of mashed potatoes, fried chicken, and green beans on her plate. “I’m still gonna collect that, you know?”
“Don’t I know it, honey. It’s all I’ve heard since last night,” said Rex, sipping his coffee and looking around the diner. The décor was trying to be homely, but just looked a bit shabby. Then again, that was part of the charm of Aunt Lucy’s.
“Well I was right, wasn’t I?” pointed out Minnie.
“Half-right,” said Rex. “He came back, but he wasn’t no killer.”
Minnie took a mouthful of chicken, making a face that said, Hey, not bad after all. She was dressed in a knee-length skirt and severely cut coat that looked like it came straight from some femme fatale’s wardrobe. Today she was looking like the bee’s knees, and Rex wondered, not for the first time, why she didn’t have a fella.
His own clothes were rumpled and in need of a wash, but Rex liked to think that was all part of his grizzled reporter’s chic. He sketched formless doodles on his pad between sips of coffee. Unlike Minnie, he hadn’t ordered any food.
“You think he’ll show up?” he asked.
“I do,” said Minnie. “I saw his eyes, Rex. He wants answers as much as we do. Probably more so.”
“But we don’t know anything about him.”
“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Rex.
The door opened with a jingle of a bell and Rex looked up to see Gabriel Stone enter the diner. He headed straight over to them, like he’d scoped them from the outside and already knew where they’d be sitting. Rex moved over to give him room to join them. Stone removed his fedora and hung it on the hook on the side of the table as he slid into their booth.
“Mr. Stone,” said Rex. “Good to see you again.”
Stone nodded and accepted a cup of coffee from a passing waitress. He smiled in greeting to Minnie, taking a moment to savor his drink. Rex looked at Minnie, who gave a tiny shrug.
“Mr. Stone,” said Minnie. “I just want to say how sorry I am for your loss. I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now. It must—”
“You’re right, you can’t,” said Stone, cutting off Minnie’s condolence. “So don’t try.”
Rex covered his irritation at Stone’s manner and said, “So you want to tell us what’s what? How come you knew that was your daughter up on the athletics field?”
“I know how to ask questions,” said Stone. “And I know who to ask.”
“And how do you know that?” asked Minnie.
“We never sleep,” answered Stone, reaching into his pocket and producing a silver badge engraved with the words Pinkerton National Detective Agency.
“You’re one of Allan Pinkerton’s boys,” whistled Rex, leaning back in his seat with a newfound respect for Gabriel Stone.
Allan Pinkerton, a penniless Scottish immigrant, had formed his detective agency on the mean streets of Chicago in 1850. Over the years, his agents had earned a gritty reputation as tough, effective, and brutal investigators, bounty hunters, and strike-breakers. Pinkertons tracked down train robbers, counterfeiters, and in 1861 helped foil an assassination attempt on Abraham Lincoln as he traveled through Baltimore to his inauguration. After the Civil War, where Pinkerton headed up the Union intelligence service, he returned to his detective agency and its fearsome reputation went from strength to strength. Rex had never met a Pinkerton man before, but Gabriel looked just like he’d have expected one to look: tough, self-reliant, and capable of breaking him in two with one hand tied behind his back.
“Yeah,” said Gabriel. “I work for the Pinkertons, but I’m here for myself. My little girl got killed, and I’m here to find out who did it and see he gets what’s coming to him.”
“What does that mean?” asked Minnie, pushing her unfinished lunch away.
“It means whatever I want it to mean,” said Stone. “Now are you going to help me or not?”
“Sure, Gabe,” said Rex, flipping the pages of his notebook.
“It’s Gabriel.”
“Oh, sure, okay. Gabriel,” said Rex. “I think we can work together. We can share information, yeah. You find your daughter’s killer, and we make sure her story gets told straight, yeah?”
Stone nodded and Rex continued. “Okay, well, first why don’t you start by telling us how you knew it was your daughter. I don’t think the cops even know that yet.”
“They know,” said Stone. “I spoke to a bull called Harden last night. Good cop, but he don’t like to be told his job. Guess I don’t blame him.”
Minnie leaned over and said, “But how did you know she’d been…you know, killed?”
“My Lydia’s a good girl,” said Stone, as though it was important to establish that fact up front, like maybe Rex and Minnie had doubted it. “She had her mother’s spirit, God rest her soul, but she was a good girl. Always wrote me every fortnight, told me how she was getting on, what classes she liked, what professors were dull or interesting. Every two weeks, regular as clockwork I’d get a letter on Monday morning, but I didn’t get no letter this week.”
“And that was enough to bring you here?”
“Yeah,” said Stone. “I came up and did what I’d do on any missing person case. Trawl the morgues and lean on the night shift workers, maybe grease a few palms along the way. Took a couple of hours…but I found her at a place called Eleazar’s. My little girl, laid out on a damn slab with half her arms and legs missing. What kind of sick bastard could do that to a little girl…”
“Golly,” said Minnie, putting her hand on Stone’s arm. “That’s terrible, I’m so sorry.”
Stone nodded and cleared his throat.
“I
got her out of that place, lickety-split,” said Stone. “Got her to a respectable place up on French Hill. She deserves that, you know, to be someplace nice.”
“Were you and your daughter close?” asked Minnie. “I know it sounds like a dumb question, but I have to ask.”
“Yeah, we were close. Ever since my wife died, we’re all each other’s got. I didn’t want her to come to Arkham. ‘What’s wrong with the New York schools?’ I said, but she wasn’t having none of it. Wanted to get out of the city, to go to school someplace where you didn’t live right on top of ten other families, I suppose. Our place ain’t big, just a walk-up apartment in the west Bronx, but it was home. She came out here two years ago, and she seemed to like it, even though she missed the New York vibe. She loved music and dancing. Liked to get out to listen to jazz and hep it up with the other girls.”
“There’s not many places you can go to dance in Arkham,” said Rex, hastily scribbling what Gabriel Stone was saying. “The good townsfolk tend to look down on youngsters that want to listen to jazz and drink and smoke.”
“Then it should be easy to track down where she was before she…met her killer.”
“Should be,” agreed Minnie. “That’s the sort of lead Rex and I can chase down.”
“We need to find this guy,” said Stone, putting down his cup and rapping the table with his knuckles. “I found out he’s done this a bunch of times before, and if we don’t find him, then a whole lot more girls are gonna die. Someone gets a taste for this shit, he’s not gonna stop.”
“Yeah, your daughter was the sixth girl in three years,” said Rex.
“Sixth?” said Stone, shaking his head. “Try twenty-fourth.”
Rex and Minnie looked at one another, unsure whether or not to entertain such an absurdly high figure. The idea that twenty-four girls had been murdered in Arkham without the vast bulk of them coming to the attention of the town was surely ridiculous.
Ghouls of the Miskatonic (The Dark Waters Trilogy) Page 10