by AnonYMous
Mr E sighed in frustration, completely failing to realize that Dante was jerking his string. ‘It’s a re-enactment, you fool. The mannequins are there for show. We could hardly use the real dead bodies, could we?’
‘One of ’em looks like Kim Cattrall.’
‘Oh, for Chrissakes, is this guy for real?’ asked Mr E, looking for sympathy from Swann.
‘He’s being a cock,’ Swann suggested from where he stood, just behind Dante. ‘I think he wants to go to the chair, myself. Making crap jokes like he’s doing is a sign of guilt if you ask me. Reckon he killed all those other folks, not just the dying girl. Be easy to try him for all their deaths too.’
Dante recognized that the time for joking had passed. ‘Well, I didn’t kill ’em all. It was that fuckin’ crazy in the hood. He must have fired off about two hundred shots in two minutes. Me? I only shot the psycho vampire broad on the floor. And you can’t murder someone who’s already dead. Which everybody knows vampires are.’
Swann patted Dante on the shoulder.
‘That’s as may be, kid, but there’s no evidence to show that it wasn’t you who killed several of the other victims, is there? And we haven’t ruled out the possibility that you were working as an accomplice of the Bourbon Kid.’
‘Well,’ said Dante, removing Swann’s hand from his shoulder and turning to eyeball him. ‘I reckon the video footage you just played shows quite clearly that I was in the bathroom with the candlestick and Professor Plum. If that’s all you got on me, I’ll be on my way, thanks.’
Mr E glanced over at Swann. The two men exchanged a quick look that was wasted on Dante. It was a look that said, Hey, this is definitely our guy. He’s got balls.
‘Dante,’ said Mr E, smiling at him in as warm a manner as he could muster. ‘How would you like to work undercover for the US Government on a secret mission that only you can pull off?’
Dante stopped eyeballing Swann and turned back to Mr E. He paused momentarily, as though deep in thought.
‘No thanks, I gotta get home.’
‘Sorry. You’re not going home. Not for a while, anyway. It’s either prison and then the electric chair, or complete our mission and then get a full pardon from the President.’
‘Pardon?’
‘That’s right, a full pardon.’
‘No I meant “Pardon, I didn’t hear any of that.” I’m deaf in my right ear.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Mr E actually sounded apologetic. ‘What I said was …’
‘I know what you said. I’m not really deaf, you moron.’
A sense of humour like Dante’s was utterly wasted on someone like Mr E. It baffled him, to say the least.
‘Look here, young man. Is your answer “Yes”, or what?’
‘My answer to what?’
‘Will you take our mission and work undercover for the government?’
‘What’s the mission? Find you a new wig?’
Mr E sighed again, unable to hide his annoyance, not so much at the comment itself but at the childish intent behind it. Even so, he began to speak, slowly and with exaggerated care. ‘We want you to go undercover as a vampire and infiltrate a ruthless gang of the undead in Santa Mondega. We believe they may have the Eye of the Moon in their possession. We have reason to believe that the young Hubal monk Peto, who was in the Tapioca with you during the eclipse, has returned to Santa Mondega with the Eye and is using its powers to conceal himself among the vampires.’
‘Why the fuck would he want to do that?’
‘He is looking for the Bourbon Kid. The Kid killed all of the monks of Hubal last year with the exception of Peto Solomon, the young monk you met. He escaped with the Eye of the Moon. We suspect that he has learnt how to use the Eye and is planning on exacting some sort of revenge on the Bourbon Kid. And although that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, we need that stone, because the chances are if Peto and the Kid cross paths, the Kid will end up with the Eye, and we cannot allow that to happen.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s too complicated to explain to the likes of you, Mr Vittori. Just mingle with the vampires, find Peto, find the stone and bring it to us. My suspicion is that if Peto is disguising himself as a vampire and sees you, he will approach you. Technically, you’re the closest thing he has to a friend in that godforsaken city. Once you give us the monk and the stone – or just the stone – you and your girlfriend can go free.’
Dante laughed aloud for less than two seconds before sensing from Mr E’s expression that he was deadly serious.
‘You must think I’m, like, a total moron,’ he grinned. Mr E and Swann exchanged another brief glance. Dante sat back and crossed his right leg over his left. ‘Not a fuckin’ chance. Find some other sucker,’ he added.
‘Nope. Can’t do that,’ said Swann. ‘You take the mission on, or, believe me, I will personally see to it that you and your girlfriend suffer. Think of the worst thing that could possibly happen to you, and I can assure you you’re not even close to what I have in store for you.’
‘I dunno, I can imagine some pretty horrible stuff,’ Dante replied nonchalantly.
‘Like what?’
‘Well, I once sat through three Nicholas Cage films in one day. That was pretty bad.’
‘Smartass. This will be worse than anything you can imagine.’
Dante gasped. ‘A Chris Tucker triple bill?’
Swann’s patience was exhausted. ‘Think about watching your girlfriend suffer at the hands of a group of my men, and you’re still not close. One more smart comment from you, and I’ll make it happen even after you’ve said yes to the mission we’re offering you.’
‘Okay, okay. You’ve made your point. I’ll do it. Shit, man, get a sense of humour, will ya?’
Swann placed his hand back on Dante’s shoulder, tightening his grip until it was just a little uncomfortable.
‘Maybe this guy’s not so dumb after all,’ he said, raising his eyebrows.
Mr E nodded in agreement. ‘Take him away and start injecting him with the serum. It’ll help if he has a few days to get used to the effects before we send him in.’
Eighteen
In Professor Bertram Cromwell’s office at the museum, the phone on his antique wooden desk rang only once before he snatched it up. He had been expecting it to ring, and could not contain his eagerness to answer it. The display on the telephone indicated that the call was from the reception desk, and as Cromwell knew even the smallest detail about what went on in his museum, he knew that it would be Susan Fraser on the other end.
‘Hello, Susan.’
‘Hi, Mr Cromwell. I have a gentleman here to see you. A Mr Solomon.’
‘Exellent. Thank you, Susan. I’ve been expecting him. Could you get someone to escort him down to my office, please?’
‘Certainly, sir. I’ll send him right down.’
‘Thanks again. Goodbye.’
Cromwell had not been this excited about a meeting for a very long time. The last surviving Hubal monk was, apparently, on his way down to his office. The day before, he had received an unexpected call from this monk asking for a few minutes of his time. He had agreed to the request immediately. There were things he could learn from this person, and no doubt a few pieces of his own information that he might share with his visitor.
Within a couple of minutes there came a knock at his office door.
‘Come in,’ he called, intrigued to see what the meeting would bring,
The door was opened by a security guard, who duly ushered a slightly built young man in and closed the door behind him. The Hubal monk took a look around Cromwell’s office, marvelling at the two side walls covered from ceiling to floor in shelves full of hardback books. After a few seconds he focused his gaze upon the Professor, who had risen from the large black chair in which he had been sitting at his desk.
‘Mr Solomon,’ he said urbanely, ‘or may I call you Peto? Please do take a seat.’ He gestured politely at one of two smaller black leather ch
airs on the side of the desk opposite him.
As was his custom, Cromwell was wearing an exquisitely smart and extremely expensive hand-built suit, a perfectly cut charcoal-grey three-piece with an immaculately pressed white shirt underneath, and a silk tie in a soft red that was so understated that it could only have been handmade at exorbitant cost. He peered over the narrow half-moon lenses of his glasses at the monk, who was not nearly so well dressed.
Peto had on a pair of black combat trousers and a skintight black sleeveless wraparound karate top with a thin yellow lining to it. He had also grown a thick head of dark hair, although all of it bar the front inch or so was hidden beneath a red bandanna he had tied around his head, pirate fashion. He acknowledged Cromwell’s offer of a seat by bowing his head and then walking over to the desk, his sandals clapping against the wooden floorboards as he went. Reaching the desk, he stood opposite the silver-haired museum director and finally spoke.
‘I thank you again for your time, Professor Cromwell. It is much appreciated.’
‘On the contrary,’ the Professor replied, holding out a hand over the desk. ‘The pleasure is all mine. So marvellous to meet you.’
Peto shook Cromwell’s hand, and both men sat down. ‘You know why I’m here?’ the monk began.
‘At a guess, I’d say it concerns the mummified remains of Rameses Gaius.’
‘Damn right.’ The monk smiled briefly. ‘I heard that the mummy was stolen from your museum around the same time last year as all of my Hubal brothers were slaughtered by the Bourbon Kid.’
‘You are absolutely correct. The very night the Bourbon Kid landed on your island and murdered Ishmael Taos and all of the Hubal monks, was the night the mummy went missing. I would suggest, however, that you’re wrong about one thing. I don’t believe it was stolen. I believe it escaped.’
There was a pause as each man waited for the other’s reaction. Cromwell was looking to see whether the monk would believe him. Peto was waiting to see if the Professor was trying to make a fool of him. Eventually both settled on the idea that they shared common ground. Peto spoke up first.
‘I suspected as much. So you know about the curse of the mummy?’
‘Naturally,’ said Cromwell, breathing an inward sigh of relief. ‘It is not something that I would expect anyone other than you to believe, however. If I were to tell anyone else about it, they would quite certainly have me institutionalized. Indeed, the fact that I believe it seriously troubles me, too. I do not mind admitting to you that I have been questioning my own sanity at times.’
‘Yeah,’ the monk sympathized. ‘I know what you mean, but last time I came to this town I saw some pretty strange fuckin’ shit. There ain’t much I don’t believe in, these days.’
‘You were here for the last eclipse, weren’t you?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Hmm. That took place just a day after a former employee of mine turned up in this office with the Eye of the Moon.’ Cromwell thought back to the moment when Dante Vittori had sat in the very same chair in which Peto was now seated. In the course of that meeting the Professor had stabbed Dante in the arm during an experiment to verify the healing powers of the Eye. The results had been fairly inconclusive, and the only memorable part of the incident was that he had been called a cunt for the first time since he had left school.
Peto pulled one side of his karate top open and revealed a blue stone hanging around his neck on a silver chain.
‘You mean this Eye of the Moon?’ he said, quickly covering it up again.
‘Good Lord!’ gasped Cromwell, shifting uncomfortably in his leather chair, which squeaked with the movement. ‘So the Bourbon Kid didn’t get his hands on it then?’
‘Nope. I took it and ran. I sensed he would come for it. Then, after I found out a few things about Ishmael Taos, my faith in his teachings wavered a little. I decided I wanted some time away from the island. Fuckin’ good timing, too. Every single one of my monk brothers, including Taos, was murdered the night I left.’
‘The same night the curse of Rameses Gaius was lifted.’
‘Exactly. Which is why I’m here. I wondered if there was anything much you could tell me about the mummy. From what I’m told, you’re an extremely knowledgeable man who knows a shitload about all the displays you have in this wonderful museum.’
‘You flatter me.’ Cromwell smiled. ‘But you are quite right. I’ll take you for a look at the remains of our display later – not that there’s really very much to see, mind you. Also, I am curious about something else. You said just now that you had seen some very strange things the last time you were here. Could you elaborate? Was it vampires or devil worshippers, or what? I am very eager to know.’
Peto took a deep breath. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘I never thought I’d find anyone who would believe any of this stuff, but basically it started when me and my Hubal brother Kyle saw this fucked-up film called Weekend at Bernie’s. We thought it was a far-fetched comedy at first, but the things we saw afterwards make me suspect that it was actually a documentary. We were attacked by vampires, and we saw a werewolf get blown to bits by a bounty hunter who claimed he was employed by God. Then the Bourbon Kid showed up and killed just about everyone else during the eclipse, albeit with a little help from a guy we met called Dante.’
‘Dante Vittori. My former employee, the one who came to me with the Eye last year.’
‘Yeah? Nice guy … I think.’
‘Oh yes,’ the Professor defended his likeable former employee. ‘A bit rough around the edges, perhaps, but he had a lovely young girlfriend to keep him in line.’
Peto nodded. ‘Oh yeah. She was hot, all right.’
Cromwell stood up from his desk and walked over to the wall of books to his left.
‘I had often suspected that this city is harbouring the undead,’ he said, picking a thick hardback book from a shelf at eye level. He inspected the front cover for a moment and blew a little dust off it, then moved back to the desk with it.
‘Oh, they’re everywhere,’ said the monk matter-of-factly. ‘I’ve recently infiltrated a gang of vampires to see if I can find out the whereabouts of the Bourbon Kid.’
‘Really? How have you managed that? Isn’t it rather a dangerous thing to do?’
Peto patted his chest. ‘This here blue stone has wonderful powers, many of which I’m sure I have yet to learn, but one of which allows me to walk among the undead without detection.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Cromwell, shaking his head in bewildered awe as he sat back down in his vast leather chair. ‘But why would you come back here to find the Bourbon Kid? Are you looking for revenge? Because from what I hear about that fellow, he’s best avoided.’
‘I want to cure him.’
Cromwell couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. ‘Cure him? Of what? Killing people? I believe the cure for that is the electric chair!’
‘Believe it or not,’ said the monk, unable for a moment to look the Professor in the eye, ‘I actually have a tiny amount of sympathy for the guy. He had it tough as a kid, from what I understand. I believe I can cure him of the disease that makes him kill without reason. Most of all, I want to look him in the eye and know that deep down he feels some remorse for what he’s done. He has the blood of Ishmael Taos in his veins, so he can’t be all bad. I believe he must have a good heart beating somewhere beneath all that hatred and anger.’
Cromwell raised his eyebrows just for a second. ‘Well, good luck with that,’ he said passing the book he had just picked out over to the monk. ‘Here, you really should read this. It explains in great depth the curse of the mummy that escaped from here last year.’
‘Rameses Gaius?’
‘The very same.’
‘In this book?’
‘Oh yes. Rameses Gaius was an immensely powerful Egyptian ruler mainly due to the things he learned from using that blue stone you’re wearing.’
‘So it’s true? He was the original owner of the Eye of the Moon?�
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‘No. That would have been Noah.’
‘You’re fuckin’ bullshittin’ me, surely?’
The Professor sighed. ‘What is it about that stone that gives Tourette’s Syndrome to everyone who wears it?’
‘Fucked if I know,’ Peto shrugged. ‘But seriously – Noah?’
‘Well, according to that book anyway,’ the Professor continued. ‘Take it away and read it. Since you have already made it clear that you think Weekend at Bernie’s is a documentary rather than fiction, you shouldn’t have too much trouble believing half the stuff you read in there.’ Cromwell paused, lost in thought for a moment, before addressing Peto again. ‘Now come, I’ll show you the Egyptian Tomb display from which Gaius escaped. On the night he disappeared, two of my security guards were murdered. One of them called me in the middle of the night to say he’d seen something suspicious, and I regret to say that before he could tell me what he’d seen, I heard him being killed.’
‘No shit? By the mummy?’
‘Actually, I’ve a sneaking suspicion that he was killed by Beethoven.’
Peto frowned. ‘Beethoven? The Saint Bernard?’
Cromwell was used to dealing with morons, but this was intolerable. Although Peto was generally pretty smart, he clearly watched too many shit films, and seemed to live his life away from Hubal on the basis of what he had seen in them.
‘No, you fool,’ he snapped. ‘Beethoven the composer?
Peto slapped his forehead. ‘Of course. That makes perfect sense. Why on earth would I suspect a dog, when clearly a nineteenth-century composer was responsible?’
Cromwell paused for thought. Put like that, maybe he had been a little quick to judge the monk. An apology of sorts was in order. He rose from his chair and said, ‘Here, let me get you some coffee on the way, and perhaps something to eat?’
‘Thanks,’ said Peto, tucking the book under his arm and standing up. ‘There is something else you might do for me, though.’