by Rick Yancey
“And that we’d better get to, and quick,” Pelt admonished. “The scoundrels could be halfway to Roanoke by now.”
“Roanoke?” Warthrop asked.
“Just an expression.”
“Odd, I’ve never heard it,” Acosta-Rojas said.
“Well, you’re from Argentina; I’m not surprised.”
“It struck me as odd too,” Walker said suspiciously. “Why Roanoke, of all places?”
“So I picked a random city!” Pelt exclaimed. “What of it?”
“Expressions are not random,” Acosta-Rojas said. “Otherwise they would not be expressions.”
Even Warthrop had had his fill. He realized, I think, the fruitlessness of pointing fingers at this crucial hour. “Von Helrung, I suppose there’s no avoiding it,” he said briskly, turning to his old master. “A few discreet inquiries in the appropriate quarters of New York officialdom are in order.”
Meister Abram nodded gravely as he rolled the gnawed end of his expired stogie across his lower lip. “I know just the man—discreet, though not overly inquisitive. He recently was promoted to detective.”
Warthrop barked a laugh. “Of course he was!”
“A moment.” Acosta-Rojas seemed aghast. “You intend to bring the matter to the police?”
The monstrumologist ignored him. He said to von Helrung, “A murder investigation would be . . . awkward.”
“It would, mein Freund, if I were idiotic enough to report one!”
TWO
The monstrumologist and I returned to the Plaza to change out of our evening wear while von Helrung left for police headquarters, Lilly in tow; he was seeing her off to her house on Riverside before heading downtown. Though she hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours, Lilly was brimming with energy—her endurance rivaled Warthrop’s when the hunt was on.
“And now let’s send the little female off to bed with a warm pat and a gentle kiss!” she grumbled to me at the door. Her dress was stained with the grime of the Monstrumarium, her coiffure wilted, the ringlets exhausted loops of raven-black. But her eyes burned with an eerily familiar backlit glow. I tapped her gently on the shoulder and kissed her cheek. She failed to see the humor of my response, and answered it with a sharp jab of her heel upon my foot.
“You had much more charm when you completely lacked any,” she observed.
“Get some rest, Lilly,” I said. “I’ll try to come by later if I can.”
She looked up into my face and said, “Why?”
If I’d had an answer ready—which I did not—I wasn’t able to give it: Samuel appeared at that moment, still dapper in his coat and tails, despite his horribly swollen jaw.
“You still owe me a dance, Miss Bates. I have not forgotten,” he said, slightly slurring the words. He lifted her hand to his lips, and then turned to me. His damaged mouth twisted in an obscene parody of a smile.
“Don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, old man.” He seemed incapable of opening his mouth more than half an inch. “The name is Isaacson.”
I did not see the blow coming. He drove with his hips, pivoting neatly into the punch; perhaps he had studied some boxing. The von Helrung vestibule spun round; I collapsed onto the Persian rug, clutching my stomach. The world had been emptied of all oxygen. He loomed over me, white and black and pumpkin-headed.
“Warthrop’s attack dog.” He sneered down at me. “His personal assassin. I’ve heard about you and Aden—the Russians at the Tour du Silence—and the Englishman in the mountains of Socotra. How many others have you murdered at his behest?”
“About one short,” I gasped. “But it wouldn’t be at his behest.”
It is exceedingly difficult to laugh heartily without opening your mouth, but somehow Isaacson managed it.
“I hope you like the Beastie Bin, Henry. You’ll be an exhibit there one day.”
He stepped lightly over me and swept out the front door to hail a cab. Lilly helped me to my feet; I couldn’t tell if she was about to laugh or cry. Clearly she was fighting back something.
“Do you still think he’s a mediocrity?” she asked.
“It is not how he sucker punched me,” I informed her. “But how I fell.”
“Oh, you fell splendidly”—and now she did laugh. “It was the most impressive collapse I think I’ve ever seen.”
I don’t know why, perhaps it was her laughter, the pleasing jingle of coins tossed upon a silver tray, but I kissed her, still heaving for air, a pleasant suffocation.
“I’m a bit troubled, Mr. Henry,” she breathed in my ear, “by this curious association you have of violence with affection.”
I was grateful, in a way, that I had no breath with which to answer.
THREE
“It’s Walker,” I told Warthrop on the way to the Plaza.
“The obvious choice,” he acknowledged. “The man’s taste for the finer things exceeds his ability to obtain them—one of the reasons why I’ve always wondered at his choice of profession. Monstrumology is not the shortest route to riches.”
“Unless one stumbles across a species whose venom is more valuable than diamonds.”
He nodded and grunted noncommittally. “We cannot count out Acosta-Rojas. No one has hunted more diligently for a living T. cerrejonensis.”
“Precisely the reason we should count him out. He’d have no reason or need to send one to you.”
“Well, it may be one of them or none at all,” he said, growing testy. “Von Helrung is notorious for running his mouth. And I’m afraid he might not remember to whom he let it slip or even that he let it slip.” He sighed. “Irish gangs! But equally foolish to assume that Maeterlinck or his client—if one exists at all—is responsible.”
He was drumming his fingers upon his knee, looking out the window. Carriage dodged automobile and both dodged the occasional bicycle and wayward pedestrian. The early-morning sun glinted off the buildings along Fifth Avenue and burnished the granite pavement a shimmering gold.
“Why did you go there?” he asked suddenly. “Why were you and Lilly Bates in the Monstrumarium?”
My face grew warm. “I wanted to say hello to Adolphus.” Then I sighed. Oh, what was the use? “To show her T. cerrejonensis.”
“To show her . . . ?” He clearly didn’t believe me.
“She has a certain . . . fascination for such things.”
“And you? Where do your fascinations lie?”
I knew what he meant. “I thought we had exhausted this topic at the dance.”
“At which point you proceeded to break her dance partner’s jaw.” For some reason he found my remark amusing. “Anyway, the topic, as I understand it, is nearly inexhaustible.”
“You exhausted it,” I reminded him.
“After it drove me into the Danube.”
I might have told him it wasn’t love that hurled him over that bridge in Vienna—or at least not love for another person. Despair is a wholly selfish response to fortune’s slings and arrows.
“Well, it was a propitious arrival into the monstrumological pit,” Warthrop observed dryly. “In the nick of time and yet too late! Not unlike my friend pulling me from the water before the current carried me down.”
“ ‘ ’Tis better to have loved and lost . . .’ ”
His temper flared. “And now you are quoting poetry to me?” he demanded, the failed poet. “What is the purpose—to mock me? Who is more pitiful, Will Henry, the man who loved and lost or his companion, who must never allow himself to love at all?”
I turned away, fists clenching spasmodically in my lap. “Go to hell,” I muttered.
“You may comfort yourself that is better to love and lose in the end, but don’t forget that even the most chaste of kisses carries an unacceptable risk to your beloved. No one knows how Biminius arawakus is transmitted from host to host. Your passion carries the seeds of damnation, not deliverance.”
“Don’t preach to me about damnation!” I cried. “I know its face better
than anyone—and certainly better than you!”
And now he quoted from the Satyricon to one-up me—and, I think, to mock me: “ ‘And then, there’s the Sibyl: With my own eyes I saw her, at Cumae, hanging up in a jar, and whenever the boys would say to her, “Sibyl, Sibyl, what would you?” she would answer, “I would die.” ’ ”
The boy in the tattered hat and the man in the dingy coat and the thing hanging in the jar.
Scratch, scratch.
I kept my face away from him, but he had turned to speak earnestly to me, close enough that I felt his breath upon my neck.
“Ignore all other advice I give you, Will, but engrave this upon the avenues of your heart: You cannot choose not to fall in love, but you can choose for the sake of love to let love go. Let it go. Resolve never to see this girl again, her or anyone, for the gods are not wise, and nature herself abhors perfection.”
I laughed bitterly. “When I was a boy, I mistook these opaque pronouncements of yours as impenetrable profundities. Now I’m beginning to think that you’re merely full of shit.”
I tensed, preparing for the explosion. None came. Instead, the monstrumologist laughed.
Back in our rooms, the doctor washed off the dried blood and Monstrumarial grit, changed his clothes, and then ordered up a hearty breakfast, which he did not touch but left to the prodigious appetite of his teenage companion: I was famished.
“I would suggest getting some sleep if you can,” he advised me. “You’ve a long night ahead of you.”
“You should rest too,” I said, falling into the old habit of his minder. “Your wound . . .”
“It’s fairly clean as gunshot wounds go,” he carelessly replied. “And I didn’t lose much blood, thanks to the ministrations of your paramour.”
“She isn’t my paramour.”
“Well, whatever she is.”
“She annoys the hell out of me.”
“So you’ve said more than once. And what is this with the expletives lately? Cursing is the crutch of an unimaginative mind.”
“I like that,” I said. “One day I intend to gather all your pithy sayings into a volume for mass consumption: The Wit and Wisdom of Dr. Pellinore Warthrop, Scientist, Poet, Philosopher.”
His eyes lit up. He thought I was serious. Perhaps he’d already forgotten my shitty remark in the taxi. “Wouldn’t that be extraordinary! You flatter me, Mr. Henry.”
He left after refusing to tell me where he was going. The less I knew the better, he said cryptically. As most of his explanations tended toward the cryptic, I did not think much of it at the time. I was consumed with the consumption of my breakfast, very tired, and a little on edge thinking about the grisly work that lay ahead. Looking back, I should have recognized that his secretiveness did not bode well; it never did.
FOUR
And the Sibyl would answer, “I would die.”
The thing suspended in the jar, scratch, scratch.
Soft as a fly’s wing thrumming the empty air.
And we the dried-out husks, one rattling inside the gray carapace of the old house and the other outside in the gray, sterile air, rattling inside the carapace of his own skin.
I collapsed upon the stoop, as exhausted as the day folding into night, my hands singing with pain, rubbed raw by the digging; I was not used to manual labor.
You must harden yourself . . . . You must become accustomed to such things.
Impossible to say how the woman named Beatrice had died. No soft tissue remained, and there were no telling injuries to the remnants of her bones except the marks from the saw where he had dismembered the body. He might have killed her, though if he had, then the Warthrop I had known since childhood was indeed no more. That Warthrop was cruel when he should have been kind and kind when cruelty was called for.
“It is my fault,” I whispered to the bones beneath my feet. “I should have known when I left him that he would fall off the edge of the goddamned world.”
Daylight dwindled, but I remained on the stoop. I resisted the instinct to rush inside and confront him. He was a stranger to me, the man who had been my sole companion for nearly twenty years, the man whose moods I had been able to read like an ancient mystic decoding the bloody entrails of the sacrificial lamb. I honestly did not know how he would react.
I drew my coat tightly across my chest. Ashes swirled in the gray air. A thought flittered across the broken landscape:
It would be better if he were dead.
A mewling cry rose from deep in my throat, and I remembered the lambs, dark-eyed, white-faced, bleating in the gloom.
FIVE
Riverside Drive at dusk: the mournful hoots of tugboats and the handsome facades facing dark water, the sturdy homes of somber men engaged in serious work. Civic clubs and church and jackets at dinner and the politics of respectable people. Fine crystal and crisp linen. Silk from China, tea from India, manners from England. And the lamps that quash the shadows but illuminate nothing, and the long dresses that trail dustless floors, and genteel voices from another room: Ça ne veut dire rien. Je n’y peux rien.
Did I have a card? the butler wanted to know.
No, no, tell Miss Bates that the nine-fingered man is here.
And then, perhaps because she heard my voice, the elegant woman swept into the vestibule, the woman whose angelic voice had sung me back to sleep with words I did not understand, the same who had said, the last we met, It is no accident of circumstance that you’ve come to me—it is the will of God.
“William?” A hand rose to her mouth. “William!”
She abandoned any pretense of formality, the glue that bound her petit bourgeois universe together, and crushed me to her breast in the fiercest of maternal hugs. Then a cool hand against either cheek as her eyes sought out mine, which had seen too much and not nearly enough.
“My, how you’ve grown!” she explained. “Lilly did not mention how very tall you are now!”
“How are you, Mrs. Bates?”
She would fly down the hall chasing the startled, nightmare cries of her accidental charge and gather him into her arms, stroking his hair and pressing her lips to his head, and her voice when she sang to him was unlike anything he had ever heard, and sometimes in his confusion and grief he would forget and call her Mother. She never corrected him.
She slipped her arm through mine and escorted me into the sitting room, where I half expected to find her husband in his reading chair, his patrician nose buried in the afternoon papers. But the room was empty—and unchanged in the three years I’d been gone. Here for a time I had been an ordinary boy playing parlor games and listening to music and reading books without even the hint of monsters in them. There were no monsters then except the one that lurked one ten-thousandth of an inch outside my range of vision.
Had I eaten? Did I want something to drink? And the woman sitting on the edge of her chair with knees demurely pressed together leaning forward and the bright von Helrung eyes shining beacons even here in the gathering shadows. She had held me and sung to me, and now I felt nothing, nothing at all, and was angry with myself for it.
“Is Lilly here?” I asked after an awkward silence.
She left to fetch her, and I was left with no one but the faces upon the mantel, smiling at me from behind glass, Lilly and her brother and the impassive Mr. Bates and the woman who was worth more than he by far. I lowered my eyes as if in shame.
“Well, you are the last person I expected to see,” Lilly said from the doorway. Her mother hovered a few steps behind her in the hall, unsure of her place.
“Perhaps I should leave you two alone,” Mrs. Bates murmured, suddenly timid.
“Yes, you should,” Lilly said curtly. She swept into the room. Her face was free of makeup, and I saw an echo of her there, of the Lilly who’d bounded down the stairs at her great-uncle’s house with the words I know who you are.
“Why the last?” I asked her. “I told you I would come by.”
“I thought you had
important scientific work tonight.”
“I do,” I replied. “Later.”
“And you’ve come by to invite me?”
“I wouldn’t want you implicated, Lilly.”
“That presumes you will be caught. Do you think you will be?”
I laughed as if she’d made a joke and changed the subject. “Actually, there is something I forgot to ask you last night.”
“Well, you were drunk and we were attacked and threatened at gunpoint. I suppose I can forgive you.”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
“You were well-lit, then.”
“Half-lit,” I corrected her, and that got a laugh. “Why did you come back?”
She understood at once. “I know the answer you’d like to hear.” She paused. “I’ve been away for more than two years,” she said finally. “I was homesick.”
“And the timing had nothing to do with the annual congress?”
“And if it did?”
I cleared my throat. “I have never told you this . . .”
She laughed. “I’m sure there are many things . . .”
“. . . but there were times your letters were the only . . .”
“. . . you have never told me.”
“. . . solace I had.”
She took a deep breath. “Solace?”
“Comfort.”
“Your life is uncomfortable?”
“Unusual.”
“Then receiving a simple letter must be an extraordinary thing.”
“It is. Yes.”
“Are you now? Uncomfortable?”
“Yes, I am a little.”
“That is unusual. Or would it be usual?” She frowned as if she were confused, which she was not.
“I suppose it would bring me some comfort if you pitied me for it.”
“I don’t pity you, Will. I am jealous of you. I envy you. Mine is the most usual, comfortable life imaginable.”
“You wouldn’t be jealous if you knew what it was.”