When Graveyards Yawn

by G. Wells Taylor

  I reached up and grasped the steel mesh screening. I gripped it with my fingers until the skin began to tear. I pulled until it stretched toward me, its blister-shape filling up with moonlight. My arms and fingers ached, the knuckles bled. The screen stretched, swelled inward, anchored to my torn claws, and finally burst free.

  I slipped outside. The moonlight glittered on the dewy grass. A field stretched before me to a thick stand of trees atop a hill. I ran in a crouching lope, dropping to all fours in a panting rhythm to feel the warm dew splash my cheeks and soak my body. I reached the hill and turned. I watched the window I had escaped through; saw it birthing sinister monkey shapes into the night. I looked toward the city in the distance. Its many lights did not twinkle like a star field now. Violence had replaced them, lights red as blood howled along the streets. Fire burst out--an explosion.

  Transition.

  Sweat boiled out of my skin, and my mind whirled with flashing red images. I was in Tommy, had entered during the dream. I could not feel his presence as I often did--lurking there beneath my consciousness like a Freudian nightmare. I tried to remember the dream's fleeting images. Flickering lights and red motes like incandescent blood cells danced and sparked inside my skull. I remembered a moon, then slithering, scampering dark shapes. I calmed myself with whiskey and cigarettes, and fumbled for the sandwiches I had brought along. It was dawn. I had been out for about five hours. The sky slowly lightened.

  An unusual rosy light began to color the clouds to the east. Unusual in the sense that I had not seen such a thing in all the time I had been in partnership with Tommy. From my vantage point, I could see the long lancing orange cloud shapes forming and stretching from the horizon toward me. Red, as ripe as apple, as sick as blood, began to grow in intensity in an angry bar beneath the cloud. It shot long bands of sparkle across the water--scoring furious grooves in the gray ocean. Perhaps that was why Tommy had chosen this place. Perhaps he had glimpsed the sunrise this way--the harsh sharp glory like a flag wrested from the hands of a dead soldier and waved over the battlefield. My perch was perfect for seeing this spectacle. Below me, the alien rays set fire to the mist that boiled through Greasetown's streets and peopled it with chromium sparks and embers. The streets followed the burning beams toward the sea. The asphalt glimmered for a moment, and then the clouds grew dark and dropped heavily on the red--snuffed out the light. An empty coffin boom of thunder fell. Darkness grew over Greasetown like scar tissue. Drizzle began tapping the plastic roof over my head.

  I climbed to my feet and watched it all with keen interest because as the sky lightened the pieces had started to fall into place. I had plenty of motive. I had suspects. I even had culprits. I had only two problems left. I had to find someone I could tell my story to, and I had to find Van Reydner. She could clear away all of my doubts. She could prove my claims. I would find her soon, if my hunch was right. The first thing I had to do was get in touch with Richard Adrian.

  Chapter 55

  The telephone buzzed. I drummed my fingers on the desk. It buzzed again then, "Hello, Simpson's Skin Tanning and Preservation for the Deceased." A man's voice tired and bored.

  "Hello, I'm Armando DeHavilland, proprietor of Nouveau Vogue, an art congregational in New Garden." There really was such a person and place. I took a bit of artistic license and gave him a German accent. "I'd like to know where I should send Mr. Adrian's Asia collection. He purchased it some months ago, and it only now cleared Authority red tape."

  "I'm sorry, any outstanding bills should be sent to his executor..."

  "Dear me. This is paid for, Mr. Adrian bought it himself, for a friend, I believe. I heard about his sad demise and the circumstances surrounding it, and since he is now unable to appreciate the pieces, I'd like to know where to send them. They're paid for."

  "Well, you could send it to his uncle, Theodore Demarus. He has apartments at 1100 Galaxy Tower, 1000 Main Street North--New Garden. Mr. Demarus has been acting as executor of the will. Since Mr. Adrian cannot see to it himself."

  "Thank you, you've been a great help." I looked across the desk at Elmo. We were in Grey's office again. I crossed another name off my checklist. I had already looked up Victor Davis' place of employment. A Speedy Prescriptions did exist, and they did indeed have record of a Victor Davis in their employ. He had disappeared without picking up his last check about two years ago. An interesting, and not wholly unexpected twist was that Speedy Prescriptions was a subsidiary of King Industries.

  I called the operator and asked for the main office of King Industries. Another buzzing phone. Another secretary. This one a woman with a voluptuous voice.

  "Hello, King Industries."

  "Hello, I'd like to speak to Mr. King."

  "Who's calling please?"

  "Owen Grey." I was going to try to light a fire.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Grey. I can put you in touch with one of his personal secretaries."

  "I want to speak to Mr. King."

  "Nobody speaks to Mr. King without an appointment." Silence. "What firm do you represent?"

  "I represent Regenerics. It's the latest thing going. I'd really like to speak to him."

  "Mr. King does not handle calls without an appointment, Mr. Grey."

  "Funny," I said. "I don't think so. Just tell him I called. I'll get an appointment. Just tell him I'll call again."

  "Very well, Mr. Grey." She hung up. She had sounded so curvy and officious, I could have listened to her all day--just smile and count the syllables.

  I looked at Elmo. His eyes were round and his face held disbelief.

  "Don't worry, Fatso." I gave him my confident look, then sat very still for a while tossing the dice in my mind. I picked up the phone, dialed Authority.

  "Authority, Crimdiv. Sergeant Yanik speaking." This fellow sounded angry.

  "Inspector Willieboy, please." Silence.

  A pause while Yanik matched fake names to real ones. "Just a sec." I was put on hold.

  "Yeah, Crimdiv." Willieboy sounded all business.

  "Inspector... I just can't say Inspector Willieboy with a straight face. I'll have to stick to Willieboy. This is Wildclown. I've got my man."

  "Don't say anything on the phone. It's not clean."

  "Which phone, exactly. Yours or mine?"

  He paused. "Where have you been? You slipped us again."

  "My driver knows his job better than yours."

  "Can't argue that. Where can I meet you, I'd like to use another venue."

  "I'll decide that later. It's my turn to call a few shots. Just don't travel too far from your phone."

  "You bastard..." But I cut him off. I smiled. That felt good. I had half a mind to call him back, just to hang up on him again.

  Now, the Twelve Stars Group. That was how they were listed in the phone book. They actually had an ad in the yellow pages. "JOIN US FOR EVERLASTING LIFE--HELP US MAKE WAY FOR THE HORSEMAN!"

  I dialed the number. The phone made a faraway rattling sound.

  "Hello, Twelve Stars Group. Your call is important to us. Please wait for a moment, all of our lines are busy." I was entertained for a few minutes by an orchestral choir doing something like Handel's Messiah. Then a female operator answered--she sounded saved.

  "Hello, Twelve Stars Group. How may we help you?"

  "I'm curious. I recently found a little charm, just a wee little thing. It looks like a swastika cradled in the oval or circular part of an Egyptian ankh. A friend told me that it belonged to you people."

  "Why yes, sir. That is our Eternal Reich symbol...where?"

  "Tell Brother Cane, or whatever he's called, he's an Authority Inspector in your group that chews brass toothpicks. Tell the ugly little prick, are you writing this down? Tell the ugly little prick that Wildclown has some information about a baby. Tell him I'll call him back."

  "If you could hold the line, sir, I'll..."

  I hung up and leaned back in my chair. I smiled. I resisted the urge to call back and hang up out of spite. A
wave of giddiness surged through me. I had the distinct feeling that I was playing with what remained of my life. I would have to move fast. The King would know where Grey's office was. After all he had paid rent on it. The finger of doom stroked my chest like an old girlfriend might, if she wanted to get back together. The safari was nearing its completion. The grass was full of tigers, the trees full of pythons and spiders. I was standing hip deep in brush with only one bullet left in my gun.

  I grabbed the phone again, dialed the Gazette.

  "Ms. Mary Redding, please."

  "Just a moment, sir."

  A second of Muzak. "Mary Redding." Her voice sounded as fresh and clean as a breeze in Eden.

  "Hello, Mary. It's me."

  "Well, where have you been, Mr. Business? You sure don't know how to treat a girl. I've called and called. Even stopped by your place. Hey, what's with the Authority transport in front of your office?"

  "I hope you gave them my best." I had expected that. "Friends of yours?"

  "Where are you calling from? I'll play a hunch." Her tone was playful. I could imagine that fine line between her eyes darken slightly. "I think you're up to your ass in trouble."

  "I was curious." I smiled at the receiver. "You mentioned justice to me once, as though you knew something about it, or had in fact seen it at some time. I know that it's an illusive bird, but was that true?"

  "It's a fantasy of mine, yes." She paused. "It may be true."

  "Well, other than myself have you ever met someone with a similar concept of justice? Someone, say, in a position of authority. Oh, at this point, I'd take just about anything. An irate meter maid or school crossing guard with a chip on his shoulder?"

  Mary Redding laughed, then sobered. "It'll cost you another date, but, yes, I do know some people."

  She was good. That much was certain. She had only slipped up once, and I had almost missed it. I remembered her then, naked curves and all. She was good in many ways.

  "What are you up to?" She had read my silence right. "Something's going to happen."

  "I'll call you back..." I hung up catching a muted "When?" from Mary. The order of the phone calls was the tough part. I had to play this perfectly. First a meal, yes, a condemned man always gets his last meal. Then the calls. The King first, he was dangerous, but the key. I called Elmo in.

  "Elmo, go round me up a couple of sandwiches--the crushed plankton with dill on rye will do, and a big deli pickle, you know the kind I like." He nodded and turned to go. I called after him. "Don't let anyone see you, and don't take the car."

  He smiled a "Yes, Boss" and was gone. I gazed after him, and then leaned back remembering my night with Mary Redding. Her strength was the most memorable part.

  Chapter 56

  Galaxy Tower was big, and designed in such a way that it appeared poised to launch itself into space. Tall, and glass-covered, it glittered when the light hit it--even Greasetown's weak rain-swept facsimile of sunshine. It rose one hundred stories on the North end of town where Main Street entered New Garden. The lower floors held offices; the upper reaches cradled expensive apartments. Its giant glass doors looked tall enough to shatter under their own weight. I pulled up onto a long black necklace of asphalt that swooped around its base. A tall man in scarlet tunic--brass buttons gleaming--walked quickly to the car. He glanced at me like I was unworthy of the golden epaulets on his shoulders, then climbed into the Chrysler with a disgusted sigh, and drove it none too gently to a large car-covered square of black top about a half mile away. He parked it. I walked up to the mammoth doors and felt a powerful rush of air as they opened automatically before me. I sauntered across the lobby and to a reception desk. Towering arches of steel and glass met high above the reception area. A crystal chandelier the size of a tugboat hid their point of interception from me.

  The desk was a wide violet oval with a hole cut in the center. Within, a black woman with depthless eyes smiled professionally through pink lips. Her perfume was lilac. She wore a crisp sky blue suit and lavender shirt. My eyes were drawn to a thin silver chain that formed a suspension bridge across the deep, dark gorge between her breasts. I lifted my gaze and smiled back. I could tell by the look on her face that she thought I was a joke.

  "I'm here to see Mr. Demarus." I removed my hat. "I'm Wildclown, a private detective."

  "Really," she smirked looking me up and down. "May I see your clearance?"

  I slapped idly at my pockets. "Oh, clearance, right."

  She frowned. "Mr. Demarus occupies the penthouse suite. I'm afraid no one is allowed to visit any floors above seventy-five without a security clearance."

  "I know. It's in the mail, I'm told," I said, looking around the enormous lobby. "I'm in security myself. I know how these things work." I leaned over the desk and saw a closed circuit TV monitor. "I see! That looks like a standard, uh--A-131 security admission setup with red filtered monitor and high-speed access thingy, there…you give the green light with those buttons. They're slick. That's slick." I pointed at a panel bearing about thirty buttons beside a coffee cup smeared with lipstick. "All the security runs through the main desk."

  "What was your name again?" She looked genuinely suspicious now and had placed a hand on her telephone receiver.

  "I'm sorry. I'll make sure my clearance is in order before I return. Thank you very much." I started to walk toward the main door as though I were really sorry. "Keep up the good work."

  "Just a minute, sir..." She was cut off by a shrill voice singing.

  "Keep right on to the end of the road, keep right on to the end..."

  I threw a corner of my eye at the receptionist. She was looking to the rear of the lobby where Elmo had staggered through a fire exit. He had entered right on schedule. I could see that he had dowsed himself with the whiskey I had left with him--his lank hair was pasted to his skull, his jacket hung from one arm, and his shirt was rumpled and untucked. He flung his head back and drank from the bottle. "When your day be long, let your heart be strong..." He cackled like a drunken witch, then sat down hard on the tiles. He fumbled around with the bottle, and slowly tried to regain his feet. The receptionist hurried away from her desk toward Elmo saying, "Hey! Hey, you can't…" He crawled across the floor, mumbling to himself. I moved quickly to the desk, scanned the panel, pushed the last ten buttons, and then hurried to the elevator. Luckily the car was waiting. I jabbed the button for the penthouse and soon left the receptionist behind with Elmo. He was just breaking into his rendition of 'Mammy!'

  It was a little past seven when we first approached New Garden's impressive skyline. The money that abandoned the real world had migrated north to the New Garden business district. It fluttered in the air, that money. You could fill your lungs with it. There were breezes of cash--gusts of green. And in the places it had settled, glass towers were growing. So far, Galaxy Tower was the largest and most prominent, though cranes atop the stumps of gargantuan rivals promised more. All the new growth and activity was centered there. It was the core--a lot of green had landed here. Main Street south, or Greasetown proper, still held the ancient City Hall and a large nest of green-roofed government buildings but it was just a matter of time before all reputable institutions and businesses shifted to this moneyed end of the metropolis. Elmo and I had approached Galaxy Tower, and then drove by it nonchalantly, formulating a plan. Elmo could pick any lock--at least I'd never seen one beat him--so our plan was for him to jimmy a rear entry door, and enter through the back of the lobby pretending to be as drunk as a lord. He would provide a distraction.

  The elevator purred around me, the faraway hiss of an air exchanger was my only company. I appreciated the lack of Muzak. The elevator stopped only once to allow an elderly Asian on. He wore a heavy wool coat and scarf that smelled like cats. He rode for two floors then got off on the twentieth. The higher the elevator climbed, the more isolated I began to feel. I wanted to surprise Mr. Demarus, but I didn't want to die in the process. Things would happen fast. I knew I would be one hundre
d floors from the street, and help--if any was coming. My plan was full of risks, but I had my professional pride to think of. I still resented being used. I had to steady myself then, not against the motion of the elevator, but against the notion that someone might still be pulling the strings.

  I lit a cigarette, stared blankly at the numbers, and then checked my gun where it was thrust through my belt in back. My overcoat hid it well enough. It wasn't for the welcome I was going to get. I knew the receptionist would have called ahead of me by now. I kept the gun for a scene I hoped would come later in the act. If everything went according to plan, enough firepower was converging to raze Galaxy Tower. My .9mm wouldn't help me much. As I approached the top of the building I placed my hat on my head, then straightened it. I peered into the polished brass doorframe. I looked sufficiently ridiculous--my makeup freshly applied--though I had to admit the hat had a humanizing effect.

  The elevator dinged abruptly at the same instant it stopped. I heard the low hum of power gather at the doors before they rumbled open. I was not surprised by what I saw, merely satisfied. There is definitely something gratifying about having a hunch play-out correctly. At least for a detective. I didn't reach for my gun, just opened my hands and smiled at my reception committee.

  "You're not going to try to pass for a long lost cousin, are you, Mr. Adrian?" I asked him where he stood smiling in deep pile ivory carpet between two tall gentlemen with machine guns.

  Chapter 57

  My mouth was bleeding. I hadn't expected that one. Adrian had reached out and decked me. He had a good solid fist that I would respect next time it was thrown at me. I was dragged into the penthouse and thrown roughly onto a black leather couch. The gunmen took up positions behind it; their weapons ready--occasionally nudging my shoulders with the barrels. Adrian sauntered over to a long chromium and glass bar that ran the length of one wall. He reached over, grabbed a towel, used it to wipe my blood and makeup off his fist then threw it at me. I pressed it against my lips and counted teeth. One on the top felt loose, but I still had a mouthful. My winning smile remained intact. Strange, the things one thinks about before the hangman comes.