“Oh! Rita, what are we going to do?” said Amanda when she was sure they were alone. “He’s going to kill you. I can’t let him hurt you. I can’t let that happen! I’m sorry. I’m going to tell him everything I’ve been dreaming.”
“I told you already, you ain’t saying nothing!” said Rita, lying on the ground and stretching her chain as long as it would go. She reached out with her free hand toward something wet and glistening on the floor. Amanda couldn’t see what it was, but Rita grunted as she stretched to the farthest extent of her reach.
Rita scrabbled on the ground. “Come on, damn you…,” she muttered.
“What are you doing?” hissed Amanda.
“Getting armed,” said Rita triumphantly as she snagged the object. Rita rolled back and sat up in front of Amanda.
“What is that?”
“This, Amanda,” said Rita, holding up her prize, “is our way out of here.”
She held up a pale white object dripping, red, and coated with gobbets of chewed flesh. It was a splintered thighbone, one end like a clenched fist, the other sharp and jagged where it had been snapped below the trochanter.
“Anyone comes near me and I stick this in their throat,” said Rita.
“And then what?” cried Amanda. “There’s no way out of here.”
“Weren’t you watching?” said Rita with a feral grin. “I thought you were the smart one.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you see? The bits of meat those ghouls threw into the pool? They got pulled into the grate by a current. That means the water is tidal. I’d stake my life that pool connects to the Miskatonic.”
Rita tucked her makeshift weapon behind her and stared at the black waters of the pool.
“It’s not much, I know,” she said, “but it’s a way out, and that’s good enough for me.”
* * *
Oliver woke to the sound of a telephone ringing. His head hurt and his eyes had trouble focusing. His mouth felt dry and sticky, and it took him a moment to remember the numerous shots of whiskey he’d had with Gabriel Stone at the nameless speakeasy. How much had he had to drink? He didn’t take much in the way of booze, and it had hit him pretty hard. The ringing of the telephone was insistent and wasn’t going away, so he swung himself out of bed and threw on a bathrobe before making his way downstairs.
The telephone sat on a table beside the door and Oliver rubbed his eyes as he picked it up.
A voice in the earpiece said, “Putting your call through now,” and after the requisite buzzing crackle, a woman’s hesitant voice sounded in his ear.
“Professor Grayson, is that you?”
“Yes,” he said. “Who is this?”
“It’s Kate Winthrop, Professor Grayson.”
“Miss Winthrop, thank God you’re safe!” exclaimed Oliver. “I feared the worst when I saw what had happened to the laboratory. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I got out of the laboratory before the sound pulse went off.”
“I’m so glad to hear it,” said Oliver. “And please accept my apology. I am so dreadfully sorry for putting you in danger. I had no idea that device would prove to be so dangerous.”
“No, no, not at all, I’m glad you did.”
“You are?”
“Of course,” said Kate, and Oliver could hear her excitement through the miles of copper wiring that connected them. “This is an incredible device, and it only caused that damage because it believed it was under attack.”
“I’m sorry,” said Oliver. “I don’t understand.”
“I was drilling into the device when it unleashed that sonic pulse,” explained Kate. “It interpreted that as an attack and defended itself. Now listen carefully, Professor, I’m in the library just now. In fact I’ve been here all night looking into the symbols etched into its surface, and…and I think I know what this was built for.”
“You do? Excellent. What is it?”
“Well, I think it’s part of another device—a component of a similar, but much larger object. The different configurations of the device alter the local electromagnetic fields, breaking down the molecular bonds in the walls between worlds. Essentially, this is a key that can be used to unlock gateways between worlds. If you know the right sequence of movements of its surface lattice you could travel between two impossibly distant points in a single step.”
“Miss Winthrop, that’s incredible! How did you come to such conclusions?”
“I know it sounds ludicrous, but the readings I took from the lab after the accident go a long way to proving it. And I’ve looked into some of the books Professor Armitage keeps in the restricted section, and…well, I think that it might not be of…of…human manufacture. I mean, it’s made of an alloy that I can’t identify, and the diamond-tipped drill in the lab didn’t even scratch the surface.”
“Not human?” said Oliver, realizing how natural that sounded to his ears now.
“Yes,” said Kate, as if daring him to contradict her.
“And you say you’re in the library just now?”
“I am, yes.”
“Then stay there until I come and find you,” said Oliver. His coat was hanging by the front door, and he fished in the pocket for his watch. “It’s…damn, it’s almost ten o’clock already, and I have a rather important meeting that may have a bearing on your findings. But I will come to the library directly afterward and we will track down Mr. Edwards. It’s about time we made him tell us how he came upon this device once and for all.”
* * *
The door to Oliver’s office looked like someone had taken an axe to it. By the time he reached the university, his headache had begun to abate, though his mouth was still gummy and tasted of sour bile. A number of the faculty staff gathered around the entrance to his office as the building’s custodians took it from its hinges and lifted it away. Oliver brushed aside inquisitive looks and questions, spinning a number of lies about frat boy pranks or drunks looking for a place to sleep. He didn’t care whether his explanations sounded convincing or not. He just wanted people to leave him alone.
The interior of his office appeared to be untouched, a fact for which he was profoundly grateful. The notes he had made from the wax cylinders of Henry’s ravings were still lying on his desk.
He gathered up the notes and swiftly penned a letter on university-headed notepaper to Professor Drouet of the Department of Modern Languages. This he folded and placed in an envelope, together with a carbon copy of the words Henry had spoken in French. Marking the envelope urgent, he popped the letter in the interdepartmental mail slot fixed to the wall outside his office.
It felt strange transitioning between his office and the hallway without recourse to a door, but the smashed remnants could hardly be left hanging in splinters. He returned to his seat behind the desk and checked his watch. Twenty-five to eleven. Time enough. Alexander would be here soon—Oliver had called him before heading to the campus—and then they could make their way to Aunt Lucy’s in time for the meeting with Stone and his reporter friends.
Oliver gathered up the wax cylinders and placed them back in the box in which he had transported them from Arkham Asylum. Hardstrom had been explicit in his desire for the cylinders to be returned to him, and Oliver saw no need not to comply with the doctor’s wishes. As he filled the box, the cold wax and linear grooves were a reminder of how easily a mind could crumble. Last night’s clarity of purpose might be short-lived, and Oliver closed his eyes as he tried to reorder his thoughts.
“I’m not interrupting am I?” said Alexander from the doorway.
Oliver looked up and gave a weak smile.
“No, of course not. Come in.”
“It isn’t like I need an invitation now, is it?” said Alexander, moving through the unbarred portal to Oliver’s office. “What the devil happened here?”
Oliver ushered Alexander into his office, waving him to silence. As Alexander took a seat in fron
t of the desk, Oliver quickly outlined the events of the previous evening, the transcription of Henry’s madness, the attack of the beasts, his rescue by Stone, and the subsequent laying of plans to meet.
“And you trust this man?” asked Alexander.
“I do,” said Oliver. “If he wanted me dead, he could have just left me to those creatures.”
“I suppose,” mused Alexander. “Though it does seem rather convenient his being there just as you needed help. Perhaps he has an ulterior motive in mind.”
“I don’t think so. The man seemed genuine, Alexander. For heaven’s sake, his daughter was murdered. Hardly makes him a candidate for suspicion, now does it?”
“True, but we are engaged in a perilous game here, Oliver,” said Alexander. “We must suspect everyone and trust nothing. Stone could have set those creatures on you and then driven them off to earn your trust, which he seems to have done admirably.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Oliver.
“You have no idea how devious our enemies can be, my friend,” warned Alexander. “But we shall give this man the benefit of the doubt for now. And these transcriptions, you still have them?”
Oliver nodded and passed over his notebook. Alexander scanned the words with interest, and Oliver saw him recoil in horror from the lurid and grisly details recounted upon the pages. “Dear Heavens!” said Alexander. “This is dreadful stuff, Oliver. And you say this is all from Henry Cartwright?”
“I’m afraid so,” nodded Oliver. “The poor man’s mind has unraveled beyond the pale. Do you recognize or understand any of the text? I thought it sounded somewhat old, though I confess I have no understanding of French.”
“Yes, it’s old right enough,” agreed Alexander, tracing his finger along certain portions of the text. “The verb form and some of the sentence structure is quite archaic, a form not used much now except by some very old-fashioned scholars. Like you, my expertise is more in the Arabic and proto-Aramaic languages, so I can’t help with the translation.”
“Not to worry, I’ve sent a copy to Julien Drouet in modern languages,” said Oliver. “He should be able to translate it. And once I have that, I plan to send it to an old colleague of mine from my days at Brown. Morley Dean, do you know him?”
“By reputation only,” said Alexander. “Are you sure it’s wise to disseminate these words so freely? After all, Dean’s mind snapped once already under the pressure of such horrors. This might cause him to experience another breakdown.”
“I thought about that, but there’s no one better qualified to get to the bottom of where this text came from and what it might mean.”
Alexander spread his hands wide and gave a short bow of the head. “Very well, Oliver. I bow to your greater familiarity with Mr. Dean. I look forward to hearing what he has to say.”
Oliver checked his watch again and stood to retrieve his coat.
“It’s ten minutes to eleven,” he said. “We should probably be on our way.”
Alexander rose from his seat. “And again I have to ask if you are sure this is a good idea? Not everyone is equipped to understand or comprehend the foes ranged against us. In such dealings I find it is always best to proceed with caution.”
“Then let caution be our watchword,” said Oliver.
* * *
Oliver hadn’t seen Gabriel Stone through the window of Aunt Lucy’s, an eatery in which he’d never taken a meal. It was mostly empty, too late for the breakfast crowd and too early for the lunchtime rush. The décor was faintly rustic, reminiscent of his grandmother’s parlor back in Fell’s Point in Baltimore. A pair of waitresses toured the tables, dispensing coffee and taking orders, but there was little for them to do.
“Do you see him?” asked Alexander.
Oliver finally spied Stone in a booth toward the back of the establishment, almost out of sight of the diner’s main thoroughfare. He sat with his hat perched on the back of his head despite the hour and being indoors. A man and woman sat with him, but Oliver could only see the backs of their heads just now.
“Over there,” said Oliver, setting off across the worn carpet toward their rendezvous.
He and Alexander arrived at the chipped table booth and Oliver removed his hat.
“Mr. Stone,” he said. “Sorry we’re a bit late. Got a bit caught up with all that happened last night, you understand.”
“Sure,” said Stone. “I get it. It was a rough night for you. Grab some coffee and join us. These are the reporters I was telling you about.”
When Stone didn’t continue, Oliver extended his hand. “Oliver Grayson, professor of anthropology and ancient languages at Miskatonic University. And this is Alexander Templeton, professor of ancient religions. Also at Miskatonic.”
“That’s a lot of ancient,” said the man opposite Stone. The reporter was disheveled and looked like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a month. Oliver knew how he felt. His rumpled face was handsome in a downtrodden way, and the dark rings framing his eyes spoke of heavy burdens being carried by an old soul.
The young man stuck out his hand. “Rex Murphy, I work at the Advertiser.”
Before Murphy could introduce her, the woman stuck her hand out and said, “And I’m Minnie Klein, photographer of the strange and impossible. I sometimes work at the Advertiser, but who knows how long that’s going to last, eh, Rex?”
“Harvey will get a good story,” said Rex. “Look at the sources we have now.”
“Okay, so we’re all buddies now,” said Stone. “We’re all here for one reason, and one reason alone. Someone’s been killing girls in this town for years, and it’s time they were stopped. Between us we probably know enough to get a good idea of who that might be. Or if we don’t, we’ve got a hell of a good head start on the cops. Agreed?”
Murphy and Klein nodded, and Oliver wondered what they and Stone had uncovered in their investigations.
“Right, if we’re going to do this together, we can’t have any secrets,” continued Stone. “We’re here to lay out everything we know, full disclosure. And once we’ve gotten everything out in the open, we’ll try and figure out what it means and what we can do about what’s going on in this damn town.”
Oliver nodded. “That sounds eminently sensible.”
“I concur,” said Alexander. “We can have no subterfuge between us.”
“Agreed,” said Rex with a wry smile. “Full disclosure.”
“I got nothing to hide,” added Minnie.
Oliver felt a strange frisson to this meeting, as though this assembly of very different people was meant to happen. In the normal run of things, Oliver would never expect to deal with a Pinkerton agent and two reporters, but there was an energy to this gathering he could see reflected on every face around the table.
This was right. This was the beginning of something.
It wasn’t much to oppose the dreadful forces at work in Arkham.
But it was a start.
Part Three
Waves on the Shore, 1926
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Stone opened their assembly with the sad tale of his daughter’s death. He told how he had come to Arkham and met up with Rex and Minnie and the content of their first meeting. The two reporters filled in their half of the story, beginning with their sighting of Stone on the edge of the athletics field and the suspicion that he might have something to do with the murder.
The Pinkerton man went on to describe how he had discovered that many more girls were missing than anyone had thought. Oliver and Alexander gasped at these revelations, unaware that their monstrous enemies had exacted such a horrific toll upon the town. Oliver spoke of Amanda Sharpe and Rita Young’s disappearance, now appreciating that their vanishing was but the latest in a bloody chain stretching back many years.
At a nod from Stone, Rex spoke of how he and Minnie had canvassed the students at Miskatonic and learned that the Commercial Club was the place to go to listen to jazz, dance, and sample the delights of illegal
liquor. Minnie took up the tale, outlining their visit to the Commercial Club, and the details, so far as Blind Rufus had told them, of Lydia Stone’s last night there.
“That’s where Amanda and Rita went the night they disappeared,” said Oliver.
“I reckon the Commercial’s the key,” said Stone. “Whoever’s doing this is using it as their own private game reserve. All those young girls, drunk or high or both…it’s easy pickings.”
Though he spoke with hard-boiled candor, everyone seated around the table could see how difficult it was for Stone to keep his composure.
“So what do we do, stake out the joint?” asked Rex. “It can’t be me or Minnie. Rufus would recognize us.”
“I thought you said he was blind,” pointed out Oliver.
“He is, but he…well, he sees somehow,” said Rex. “Trust me, he’d know.”
Stone shook his head. “We don’t got time for that. Those two girls have been missing for three days now. If we don’t find them soon, they’re as good as dead.”
“If they’re not already,” said Rex.
“They’re alive,” said Stone. “I know it. If they were dead, someone would have found their bodies by now. Like I said, whoever’s doing this wants this town afraid. They want folk so scared they shut all their doors and bar all their windows. People that are afraid are easy to control and they do what they’re told. All those bodies turning up threw the town into a panic, and folk are leaving every day. I’ve seen the boarded up stores and I’ve seen how people look at each other. Hell, the Brits could march back in here and take over again and no one would notice right now.”
“You think that’s what these killings are all about?” asked Alexander.
“Yeah, I do,” said Stone. “In themselves they’re not the killer’s goal, but they’re paralyzing Arkham and making it real easy for someone to get on with another plan and not have anyone else notice. And it’s been going on for a long time.”
Ghouls of the Miskatonic (The Dark Waters Trilogy) Page 23