Around the corner came an old man with a snowy beard that swallowed his weathered, brown face. Piercing eyes gazed out from his thick mop of hair and beard. He lowered his lantern in disappointment, the other hand clutching a chunk of ice in a handkerchief.
"Away, you thieves!" he said in a surprisingly hale voice. He wore a plain craftsman tunic with a stained leather apron over top.
"We're not thieves," I said. "I did not think anyone would be in here."
His beard shifted. "A woman? You're a fool for coming here. You must leave now."
"I'm a woman, too," said Brassy.
"One, two, five, a hundred," he said, waving his arms about. "You have to leave and soon. You're in great danger here."
"We're friends of Franklin," I said, hoping his name would smooth the way. "We need to examine a body and then we'll leave. It's the one he sent you last week."
"I don't care if you're friends with the Pope, you have to leave here," he said, gesturing wildly. "Quickly now, and lock the door on your way out."
The old man twitched. He took a step forward. Nothing about him except his unruly beard appeared elderly.
His eyes closed momentarily, as if he were holding something back. He spoke through gritted teeth. "Begone, you fools, I cannot control it much longer."
He lunged forward with a clawed hand. I sprung backwards. My ears exploded with noise. Brassy had fired her pistol. The old man was leaning to one side as if he'd been hit, but it didn't seem to bother him, as he came forward relentlessly.
I knocked the table over, spilling knives across the floor. The pewter mug bounced, flinging the milky liquid in a wide arc.
I expected the old man to leap over the implements and attack, but instead, he dropped to his knees with a cry of anguish and picked up the knives as if each one were a fallen child.
We backed away towards an exit as he lifted the table and began re-sorting the morgue utensils. Turning to run, we found the passage leading down stone steps. We'd gone the wrong way. By the time we made it back to the central room, the old man was finished and turned to attack.
I nearly fell over Brassy as we scrambled down the stone steps. The old man's hoarse breathing followed. I kept expecting sharp claws to pierce the unprotected flesh between my shoulder blades.
At the bottom was a room with a door. The air was bitterly cold. We flung the door closed and jammed the lock in place right as the old man hit it.
A primal scream was followed by a barrage of scraping at the door. I was glad the barrier between us was stone, as I couldn't be sure this old man couldn't break through a wooden one.
When the noise on the other side stopped, we both strained to hear. The silence was unnerving. Then we heard what sounded like a lock being engaged on the other side. He'd trapped us.
"What manner of creature is he?" asked Brassy, lips white with fright.
"I don't know," I replied, "but before we determine the nature of our host, we need to make sure there isn't another way down."
I lifted the lantern high. It was a long room with corpse drawers on either side. Breath fled from our lips. Brassy was already shivering.
"Where is this cold coming from?" she asked.
"He had ice in his hand. There must be a storeroom of it to keep the bodies preserved. A lot of ice," I said.
We found it off the main room. The blocks of ice were as big as crates. A chain hoist was attached to the ceiling. Claws hung off the chain to grab the ice. A metal rolling cart waited to the side. It would be used to move the ice.
A pick was stabbed into the ice. The old man had broken off a chunk to put in his milk.
"How does he get it upstairs?" asked Brassy.
"He must be strong—"
The words fell dead in my mouth when I realized what she meant. We heard the sound of gears grinding from somewhere in the morgue.
"An elevator," I said frantically. "There's another way down!"
I sprinted down the long room. The noise was coming from the other end, where there was a wide sliding door. The chugging of the steam engine could be felt through the stone. The door was wooden. It wouldn't keep the old man out.
Much to Brassy's horror, I opened the gate and held the lantern inside. The space was about eight feet by five feet, and it went up into darkness.
"We have to find a way to keep the elevator from coming down," I said, examining the slots on either wall that kept the platform level as it descended. "Bring that cart!"
Brassy ran back the other way while I looked around for something to jam into the groove. My rapier was too thin to wedge it.
She came running back moments later, the cart's grinding wheels sending up a racket. It was too short to keep the elevator from coming down enough that the old man could slip out the front. As soon as that steam engine gathered enough energy, we'd be at his mercy.
A heavy thunk reverberated through the stone like a lever being switched into place. A faint vibration began to grow stronger. I leaned the lantern inside the elevator shaft. The darkness shrunk as the platform descended.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The elevator moved at a torpid pace, but fast or slow, its descent was inexorable. The long empty stone room was tomb-like in its emptiness.
"The drawers," I cried, rushing towards one wall. "You check the other side. We need something to jam in the groove."
The sliding drawer took both hands to open. Brassy was grunting along the other wall, trying to get her own drawer open, while the vibration of the steam powered elevator reverberated through my feet.
As the metal front pulled out, the smell of decay hit me full in the face, making me turn my head to momentarily retch. It was a middle-aged woman wearing a peasant's frock in the drawer. Older than my appearance, but younger than my true age.
There was nothing inside that might help stop the elevator. I moved to the next drawer. It was stuck, or the body was heavy enough I couldn't move it, so I scrambled to the next one.
The third drawer flew towards me when I yanked on the handle. The interior was empty. I left it open and slid to the right, grabbing the cold iron handle of the next drawer. The frozen metal made my hands ache.
Before I opened it, I looked to the elevator shaft. The bottom of the platform was visible at the top of the empty space.
"Katerina!" shouted Brassy.
I spun around. She held a rifle in her hands. A dead soldier lay on the sliding slab beside her.
We ran towards the descending elevator, converging at the opening. Together we jammed the barrel into the groove on the left side. The iron wheel immediately ground to a halt, spitting bits of spark into our faces.
The right side of the platform tried to move down, the whole mess groaning and shuddering like a rabid elephant about to go wild, until the wheel shifted. I wasn't entirely sure the platform wouldn't collapse on our heads the way it shook.
Then somewhere above, a gear snapped and the whole thing stopped. Arm in arm, we backed out of the elevator shaft. The platform had moved below the top edge of the opening by about a foot and a half. A metal cage blocked the old man from sliding out the gap.
Together, Brassy and I stood vigil, waiting for whatever the old man would try next, icy breath puffing from our shivering lips.
A bearded face pressed itself against the steel cage, eyes reflecting red in the lantern light.
"It's fortunate you stopped the elevator," said the old man, eerily calm.
I stepped forward. "Or what? You would rip the flesh from our bones?"
"I have no desire to hurt you," he said, voice full of self-recrimination. "But you've come upon me at a delicate time."
The admission surprised me, but he was not raging against the cage, or trying to circumvent the obstruction. Maybe there was time for a peaceful tête-à-tête.
"With whom do we speak? Since we are not battling each other for life, we should exchange pleasantries."
The old man chuckled with mirth. "I would much prefer that. I
am the Keeper, though you might prefer to call me Santiago."
At his name, I recognized his faint accent, though it was worn away by time.
"You are a Spaniard?" I asked, rubbing my limbs for warmth.
"Before I came to America, I spent time there," said Santiago. "You have a Saint Petersburg accent, and your friend is strictly American born."
"You have a delicate ear," I said.
"I've traveled," he replied.
"Maybe you and I have crossed paths? I used to do a fair amount of traveling myself. My name is Katerina, and this is my companion," I said, leaving out Brassy's name.
He made a sorrowful noise in the back of his throat, a memory broken loose. "Your name isn't familiar, and it's doubtful we crossed paths. My travels have often been joyless affairs, as you can tell by our initial introduction."
"Apologies," I said. "May I ask what ailment afflicts you?"
"You would have no basis of knowledge to understand," said Santiago, "but I will at least elucidate you on the peculiars."
The manners of his speech showed me he was an old, proud man fallen on the hardest of times. Not old, ancient probably. Maybe a man like Koschei, except Santiago had found a way to temper his madness.
"I may not suffer the companionship of others, or I turn to a murderous rage. In the daylight, I can manage brief interactions, though I dare not press my fortune, as accidents have happened. At night, the city guard locks the mausoleum from the outside so that I might be safe from intrusion, and before day has come, I retreat to my room and lock the door so that I will not be tempted. As the sun shines, I have more control. The guard's first duty upon opening up the mausoleum is to lock my door," he said.
"So you act as Philadelphia's coroner?" I asked.
"I'm well acquainted with the dead, so it's an appropriate profession," he said, as if it were a penance. "You mentioned you were friends of Benjamin Franklin. It was he that gave me this opportunity, so I'm doubly glad that I did not murder you."
I chuckled. "We're glad of that, as well. But what now? We're trapped, and in the morning, you won't be in your room. And for that matter, why aren't you still trying to kill us?"
"Good questions, all of them. My lust for your blood has quieted, only because there is no opportunity to reach you. This barrier silences the curse in my head," explained Santiago.
"It's so bloody cold," said Brassy, hopping up and down to stay warm.
"I'm sorry about that," said Santiago. "I store the ice in that room to keep the bodies from decomposing too quickly."
"Bodies, yes, that's why we came. We need to see a body," I said.
"Mr. Alden Bridgewater, I presume; the one Benjamin sent me last week," said Santiago.
"Yes, you remember," I said.
"Hard not to," he said. "Ben told me that he'd been shot."
"Yes, I'm the one who killed him. He was trying to kill us in turn. Had nearly cut Ben's throat before I shot him," I said, feeling anger rise to my cheeks.
"Yes, about that," said Santiago. "He didn't die from a bullet wound."
"He didn't?" I asked, positively perplexed.
"Not at all," said Santiago. "He'd been dead for a couple of days when Ben brought him. I meant to inform Ben, but it's hard for me to get messages out, and he's a hard man to find."
My hand went to my mouth. I didn't know what to make of it. Had a spirit inhabited his dead body? The investigation at the Rothschild's had smacked of possession. Except the family members weren't dead after the madness, which was why we'd deemed it acceptable to call the incident finished.
"Have you ever heard of a dead man moving on its own, while appearing to be in the blush of health?" I asked.
"I've seen many things," said Santiago, "but not that."
"In which drawer is the body?" I asked.
After a bit of explanation as to the location, we were examining the body of Mr. Alden Bridgewater. The flesh was ashy and stiff, the cheeks sunken, and the skin taut with dehydration. He lay on the sliding table with eyes closed, purplish lips barely apart.
"How did he die then?" I asked. "If not by pistol shot."
"As far as I can tell, it was by falling. There's a large wound on the back of the head," he said.
I placed my fingertips on the side of his head and moved it. The jaw slipped wider as I pushed on the stiff neck. A wretched stench wafted from his open mouth.
"Mercy," said Brassy, wrinkling her face, "what in God's name is that smell?"
"His guts are decomposing," said Santiago. "We need to get him in the ground soon."
Ignoring the smell, I examined the bruised and broken flesh. The skin was torn, with old, crusted blood along the back of the head.
"He didn't bleed a lot," said Santiago, "but the impact must have been enough to do him in."
I recalled the pit in the tunnels was only about fifteen feet deep. Which was enough if one fell onto one's head, but why would he have fallen if not hit by the bullet?
"I don't understand this one bit," I muttered to myself.
"Your dead man was deviant," said Brassy, startling me out of my thoughts.
"What?"
She pointed to his wrists. "He liked bondage. I know those marks on the wrist. Sometimes our clients liked to be tied up."
I had to admit, it was a little shocking, even to me. "Men pay for such a service?"
Brassy shrugged, while her arms were across her chest. Her lower lip was quivering.
"Still," I said, shaking my head, "I don't think it’s bondage. Why was he tied up? And when? How did he get out?"
On impulse, I placed my thumb against his eyelid and pulled it back. One brownish-green eye stared back.
"Not gray." Then I turned to speak to Santiago. "Do eyes change color when people die?"
"Not that I've seen," he said.
Were the gray eyes a sign of possession? In my readings, I'd found many instances of men and women taken by spirits. Usually there was something changed about them that was unconsciously noticed by the family.
Could it be that whatever had afflicted that family in New York had come down to Philadelphia? Maybe that's why it had recognized me so quickly, because it knew me from those investigations.
Or had someone else guessed at Mr. Bridgewater's possession and tied him up to protect him from himself? Sally Hemings had been in bondage as well. The two had to be linked; I just couldn't figure it out.
Frustrated, I shoved the body back into the wall. The drawer slammed shut with a thump.
"Can we leave?" asked Brassy, white mist exiting her lips. "I'm so cold."
"Are we stuck here until the morning when your friend the guard comes to let you out?" I asked.
Santiago was quiet for a long moment. I couldn't see his white beard at the gap, which worried me. Based on her glance, Brassy shared my concern.
Suddenly, Santiago's bearded face pressed against the wire cage. "I have an idea. I can climb out the top through the service door and back up to the main floor. I'll unlock the door and then return to my room. You can lock me in and then leave at your leisure."
"But you said you have more control when the sun is up," I said. "It's still nighttime. What'll keep you from bursting out and killing us? Or just waiting by the door when we leave?"
"Good questions," he said. "But I don't think you'll survive the night if you stay. It's cold enough to freeze a body, alive or dead."
He had a point. Even my bones were cold. Brassy was smaller and had a slight frame. I didn't think she'd last another hour.
"As much as I'm enjoying our polite conversation right now, I don't know how we can trust you. You don't even trust yourself," I said.
"It's up to you," said Santiago. "I was just offering an option."
Or trying to lure us into a false sense of security. Though he had been rather forthcoming with information and he was a friend to Ben. That had to count for something.
I paced around, rubbing my arms. I wasn't sure we'd last another hour. My f
ingers and toes were already numb.
I turned to Brassy. "What if we stripped some of the bodies of their clothing, climbed in one of the drawers, and held each other for warmth?"
She blinked. "Don't I keep my door locked each night rather than sleep in your bed?"
"Right. That won't work either," I said, continuing to pace. "What if you unlocked the door, Santiago, and then returned to the elevator. We could then decide the timing of our escape and your location would give us a head start."
"Sounds reasonable," he said. "I'll go unlock the door."
It took less time than I would have liked for him to escape the elevator and unlock the door. In fact, it was frighteningly fast.
Once he'd returned to the elevator, he said, "I'm back. I tried to close every door in my way to slow me down. I can't promise anything though."
"You've done the best you could. It's up to us now," I said. "How much do weapons affect you? Bullets and rapiers?"
"Like gnats on a bear," he said.
"Right," I said. "Anything else?"
"I doubt you have any way of hurting me," he said.
Which probably meant my magic would do little to stop him.
"Then let's get started," I said.
"I'm lying on my belly with my hands through the cage. That should give you a few extra seconds," said Santiago. "And if this fails and I do reach you before you escape the mausoleum, I'm truly sorry. You seem like excellent folk, and I would enjoy having further conversations with you."
"And you as well," I said. "Farewell, and I hope we can meet again under better circumstances."
Brassy and I huddled by the door.
"Do you remember the way out?" I asked.
She nodded, though her face said otherwise. "I think so."
"Then you lead the way," I said.
We both took a deep breath, then ripped the door open. Immediately we heard the rattle of the metal cage on the other side.
The stone stairs flew by as my legs pumped. I nearly tripped at the top but caught myself. We hesitated in the upper chamber, trying to remember the way out. There were multiple passages.
Brassy darted into the one passage on our left, and I was sure it was the wrong one. We bounced off the walls through the darkness. The sound of heavy breathing followed. Santiago had caught us already.
The Franklin Deception (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 4) Page 15