by D. R. Martin
Percy’s responses were mostly on the order of “Eh” and “Um” and “Oh.” Clearly not interested in reminiscences from home. And emphatically not the affectionate reunion his mum had hoped for.
There had been only one real moment of connection. For some unaccountable reason, Dame Honoria started to recite a tiny piece of verse that she hadn’t thought of in years. Something that Percy had composed for her as a small child. Memory being a funny old thing, it popped right back into her head. She spoke the first lines.
“Mummy loves her little man,
And always likes to feed him…”
She stared at him hopefully, beseechingly, and for a change he obliged her, finishing the final couplet:
“Cakes and tarts and apple flan
Because he is her sweetum.”
Dame Honoria was staring at him silently after that when someone rapped sharply on the cabin door. She tottered to her feet and cracked the door open. It was young Miss Bain.
“Nina, my dear,” she said. “Please come in. What can I do for you?”
Nina tiptoed in and warily eyed the scowling Percy, only a few feet away. It gave Dame Honoria a chill to see the look of revulsion that came across the girl’s face. Whether it was due to Percy’s alarming appearance or because of his campaign to murder those who were essentially Nina’s family, she could not say. The fact remained that at the moment, no one felt very fond of Percival Rathbone. Not even his mum.
“This is yours,” said the girl, looking at Dame Honoria. She handed over a small leather case. “Found it in your cave. You wouldn’t want to leave it behind, I bet.”
Dame Honoria opened the case and smiled for the first time since she laid eyes on her son. “Oh my goodness gracious, my diamond. The Star of Gilbeyshire. Thank you, Nina. I had quite forgotten about it.”
She gave the girl a quick hug and tucked the case into the pocket of Danny Kailolu’s rain jacket—which he had loaned her to wear over her filthy and odoriferous silk robe.
The famous suffragist watched the bright-eyed young lady—so very smart and earnest—step out of the cabin. Then she once again scrutinized the unfathomable brown eyes of her son.
Something in one of the cobwebby closets at the back of her mind stirred and stretched and threw open a door of memory. And she shuddered, finally understanding what it was.
Her Percival had always had blue eyes.
Chapter 49
Saturday, November 2, 1935
Gorton Island
His mutton-chop whiskers all aquiver, Sir Chauncey Holyfield greeted Johnny and the others at the dock on Gorton Island. Johnny thought the novelist was a funny-looking old fellow—much like one of his eccentric fictional characters who provided comic relief. Nina, a big fan, was particularly excited to shake the ghost author’s invisible hand.
“My dear old girl,” Sir Chauncey said sheepishly, as he helped pluck Dame Honoria up out of the black rubber dinghy, “profuse apologies for abandoning you. I am deeply mortified. Heroism not my cup of tea.” He gave her a quick hug and peck on the cheek.
“You left me out to hang, Chauncey,” she grumbled, scowling at him. “And if you want to make up for it, I’ll expect you to work harder than you ever have before.”
“Of course, Honoria, of course,” said the ghost. Then he took a closer look at the peculiar figure frowning up at him from the dinghy. On either side of this creature sat two blue-coated ghost troopers. “Good grief, who—or should I say what—is that?”
“Sir Chauncey, I would like you to meet my son, the khan. Percival Roderick Gorton Rathbone.”
“Hello, Percival, so good to finally meet you. Your mother has had so many wonderful things to—” Sir Chauncey came to a dead stop and pivoted to look at Dame Honoria. “Did you say khan?”
She nodded tiredly.
The best-selling author blinked in amazement at the dour person being helped up out of the dinghy by the ghost troopers. “You mean,” he peeped, “that your Sweetums is the psychopath behind the Hausenhofer Geselschaft murders?”
Dame Honoria shut her eyes and nodded.
* * *
The mistress of Gorton Island had asked Johnny and Mel to come out onto the white sand beach after dinner. The sun was setting over the Rotonesian mainland, a glorious seascape with multi-hued clouds dotting the sky. A lovely, mild breeze came off the water.
Johnny, his pant legs rolled up to his knees, loved the sensation of the sand between his toes. It felt to him, after they arrived on Gorton Island, as though they were on vacation. But he was positively drooping in his tracks. He needed a long night of shut-eye. His sister, in the boldly-colored silk summer dress that she had bought in the Orchid Isles, didn’t look much livelier.
“I don’t know what you needed to talk about, Dame Honoria,” Mel said. “But can you tell us, has Percy said anything about Mom and Dad? Anything? Even the least little bit?”
“Yeah,” Johnny put in, “Percy might be our best chance of finding them, if they’re still alive. And he’s being a real creep about it!”
“I know he is, Johnny,” Dame Honoria answered with resignation. “We can only hope that he has a change of heart very soon.”
“So, Dame Honoria,” Mel said, “what did you want to talk about?”
“You’ve seen Percy in the past,” the old lady replied, glancing from one youngster to the other. “But you never knew him as I did. Until this morning I’d not put two and two together. I had encountered Percy only once on Old Number One, before the colonel took him into custody. I recognized his voice immediately, of course. Yet one of the first things I said to him was, ‘You have changed.’ He had been physically weak before his disappearance on Okkatek. Now he looks fit and strong.”
“Anyone can go on an exercise program and build up his muscles,” said Johnny, kicking at the white sand.
“That’s what I thought, as well. But I noticed other things, too. He used to have a weaker jaw and a slightly receding chin. Exercise cannot account for that. Nor the dank forest smell Percy exudes whenever he comes into a room. Most peculiar.”
“Where are you going with this, Dame Honoria?” asked Johnny, now waking up. This was beginning to sound a little weird.
“I don’t like that look on your face,” Mel told her.
“Bad news and my features don’t go well together, do they?” The noblewoman gave a desolate chuckle. “This morning I took a close, hard look at my son and finally something very obvious leapt out at me. I don’t know how I could have missed it.”
Mel regarded her old friend. “Yes, what was it?”
“The color of Percy’s eyes has changed. From blue to brown.”
Johnny shook his head. This made no sense. “It’s impossible to change the color of your eyes, once you’re old enough. Some babies’ eyes can change color, but not adults’. Right?”
Dame Honoria nodded. “You know what I think it means, my dears?”
“Maybe he’s someone pretending to be Percy,” Mel suggested with a hesitant tone. “Someone living who knows a lot about your son. Someone who can imitate his voice. Enough to fool a very hopeful mother.”
“I wish you were right, my dear,” replied Dame Honoria, nodding. “But this person knew things that only Percival could have known. He was able to recite part of a poem my son composed as a little chap. How could an imposter have known it?”
Johnny pondered that. Dame Honoria was right. Even if this person—supposing he wasn’t Percy—had somehow held Percy in captivity for five years, he couldn’t fool Dame Honoria. Because it would have been quite impossible for the culprit to have learned every little obscure detail from Percy’s childhood.
So if this wasn’t someone else pretending to be Percy, if it really was Percy, but he didn’t look remotely like his old self, then—
“Percy’s got a new body,” Johnny blurted out.
“My thoughts exactly,” Dame Honoria agreed gravely.
“If he’s gotten a new body it means h
is old one died. On Okkatek Island or somewhere else.”
The old lady nodded again, shutting her eyes firmly against the tears that tried to seep out. It appeared that she hated to even think about her Percy dying. Despite all the vile things he had done, he still was her Sweetums and thinking of his death must have pained her greatly. Any mother would feel the same, thought Johnny.
“Which means he didn’t pass beyond the ether,” Johnny continued. “He became a ghost.”
“I believe so,” Dame Honoria concurred.
“And as a ghost, Percy somehow took over someone else’s body. Hard to imagine taking over a living person’s body. So probably he possessed a body that had just died.”
“I confess that I am thinking along the same lines, Johnny,” the old lady said.
“But that’s supposed to be impossible. Right? First Impossible Thing. No ghost can come back to life.”
“It’s supposed to be that way,” said Mel. “No ghost should be able to reanimate and inhabit their own dead body. But we never considered the possibility of a ghost possessing somebody else’s dead body.”
“Highly improbable,” said Dame Honoria. “But sitting upstairs in my house, held prisoner, is evidence that such a thing may have taken place.”
“It seems Percy has found a way,” observed Mel. “He’s a very, very smart man. His mother’s son…”
Dame Honoria sniffed and acknowledged Mel’s sideways compliment with a nod. “And in the world of fantasy and legend what do we call a dead body that has come back to life? Or unlife, if you prefer?”
“The technical name for it,” said Mel, “would be ‘revenant.’”
A strange feeling that combined dread with exhilaration surged through Johnny. He was witnessing a historical moment, an occasion when the whole world changed. Something new and frightening had come into being. A horror that used to exist only in comic books and radio serials now, it seemed, had become real. What it meant, he couldn’t say. He was only a kid with a camera. But this would be an event that he would remember forever.
“There’s another word you can use,” Johnny said, scarcely believing it. “Percy is a zombie.”
Chapter 50
Sunday, November 3, 1935
Gorton Island
“My name is spelled F-R-A-N-K-L-I-N F-F-O-R-B-E-S. Two f’s in the surname. Eccentric spelling, I guess. The second f is silent. I am twenty-one…erm…was twenty-one years old. Got my degree from Albertville Polytechnic, in metallic engineering. Graduated just six months ago. Not a very long career, eh?”
The slender wraith with thick blond hair grinned nervously at Mel and Johnny, then jabbered some more.
Johnny, Mel, and the ghost were sitting around a bamboo table on Dame Honoria’s front verandah. Danny was behind Mel, leaning against one of the beams that supported the roof. Every once in a while he hovered in over her shoulder, to read her notes about what the ghost had said. Johnny was glad that Mel could have some time with Danny. It seemed she liked the guy, and so did Johnny. Mel hadn’t had much luck with boyfriends, but maybe this time would be different.
This, however, was no romantic date. Johnny wondered how they were ever going to extract the important facts out of this poor ghost, if he wouldn’t stop babbling on and on without getting to the point. Mel was too polite. If you’re a real newshound, you’ve got to be a little pushy. Otherwise you’d never get the story.
Johnny took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles sharply on the table. Franklin Fforbes and Mel both stared at him quizzically.
“I think we have enough background information, Mr. Fforbes,” Johnny said evenly. “Can we please move on to the actual events that brought you to this unfortunate situation?”
The wraith gave a nervous laugh. “I apologize. I do tend to blather. And please call me Frank.”
“Sure thing, Frank. But we’ve gotta get your story down before you go floating off.”
“I assure you that I have no intention of floating off. Miss Graphic said she’d help with my family. My present circumstance will be a terrible disappointment to them.”
“Understood, Frank. Now let’s begin with how you were recruited into this secret project. When was your first contact with government agents?”
The specter ran his fingers through his dense blond hair, then scratched vigorously behind his right ear. “Here I am, all— all— all dead. And I’m still itching. I just don’t understand how—”
Johnny groaned with exasperation. “Frank!”
Franklin Fforbes grimaced. “Sorry. Okay, the question was, how did I get sucked into this disaster? Well, late last winter one of my professors called me into his office to meet a man who needed a metallic engineer. He called himself Mr. Smith, and he said he represented an important government research project. It paid very well. If I got the job, I had to swear—under penalty of imprisonment—to never tell anyone what I did. It sounded exciting.”
“What did Mr. Smith look like, Frank?”
“I can tell you, he gave me a little chill. He was a tall man, kind of tubby. His head was perfectly, shiny smooth, not a hair on it. He had a white pencil mustache. He had what I would call piggy eyes. And one of his hands twitched constantly. He didn’t seem like a man you would want to mess with.”
Johnny and Mel’s eyes locked and simultaneously they pronounced, “Santangelo.”
* * *
It took even longer to get answers out of the two scientists who were still among the living.
The woman was named Doctor Doris Dinglemann. Stout, red-faced, and loud, she sounded like a badly played trombone. The man was tall and willowy, with tightly drawn features and washed-out blue eyes. His voice was soft and reedy. Emil LaGrange let the woman do most of the talking—as if he were used to it. It turned out they were far more afraid of the people they worked for than the people who had rescued them. So mostly they refused to answer Johnny and Mel’s questions.
But they became especially agitated when Johnny started reading them what Franklin Fforbes had said about the etheric bomb.
“He can’t do that, can’t say that,” Doctor Dinglemann bleated. “He signed an oath of absolute secrecy.”
“He’s dead,” Mel spat. “Thanks to the people who sent you here. And there’s nothing anyone can do to him anymore. He’s released from any legal obligations.”
Suddenly Johnny remembered something that Miss Beale, the Clarion’s managing editor, had told him about—a technique that reporters can sometimes use to get reluctant interview subjects to help with stories.
“Okay, Doctor Dinglemann,” said Johnny, hoping this would work. “If you’re afraid of the big bald guy with the white mustache—”
Both the man and woman went utterly pale.
“—you don’t have to say anything. But if you agree with what Frank told us, all you gotta do is nod. Disagree—shake your head. Don’t know—shrug your shoulders. We just want confirmation. You don’t have to say a word. Simple as that. Then if someone asks you what you told us, you can say, ‘Nothing. Didn’t say a word.’ And you’ll be telling ’em the straight truth.”
Doctor Dinglemann and Emil LaGrange whispered in each other’s ears, then stared at the brother and sister. They didn’t look the least bit happy, but both of them nodded.
* * *
Percival Roderick Gorton Rathbone spent the two days before their departure locked in the upstairs guest room, guarded by Zenith troopers. He preferred a diet exclusively of meat—mostly canned mackerel and tuna, as that was all that Dame Honoria had in her larder. He slept not at all.
Johnny, Dame Honoria, and Mel tried twice to loosen his tongue. The first time produced nothing but a few useless, monosyllabic responses. But the second time he provided tiny slivers of information and one expression of semi-regret.
“Your etheric bomb did a terrible atrocity to thousands of the ghosts, for whom you claim to be an advocate,” Dame Honoria said. “How do you feel about that?”
Percy sighed, an
d with those new, unreadable brown eyes, he contemplated his mother. “Unfortunate, of course, Mummy, that they didn’t pass beyond the ether. I wish that they had.”
It amazed Johnny that Percy’s voice sounded exactly as it had before, despite its apparent emanation from someone else’s larynx.
“But they suffer for a greater good,” continued Percy. “No different than soldiers suffering in war.”
“And what good is that?” snapped Johnny.
Johnny knew all too well that Percy had always despised the Graphic family. Mel had told Johnny that her theory was that Percy believed they had wormed their way into his mother’s affections—somehow displacing him.
As if to confirm it, Percy almost snarled at Johnny. “We mean to free the ghosts from their subjugation, and give them a place to live upon this earth—dead and undead alike.”
It was almost too incredible. If Percy was a zombie or a revenant, and therefore undead, he had just declared openly that there would be more like him coming. The looks on Mel and Dame Honoria’s faces showed the same shock of realization.
“By ‘we’ do you mean yourself and Miss Worthington-Smythe?” asked Dame Honoria.
Percy thought a moment before answering, then nodded. “Yes, of course, Mummy, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“And perhaps you can explain what that woman is doing in this rather incriminating sketch which Melanie and Johnny have shared with me,” Dame Honoria continued. From a pocket she withdrew the rolled-up drawing that Mongke Eng had left behind, then showed it to Percy. “You will recognize Will and Lydia Graphic. By the look of it, on Okkatek.”
A black expression flitted across Percy’s face. “That blasted contessa,” he growled. Then he composed himself. “Who’s to say it’s even real? She may have faked it. Made it up out of her imagination.”