The Erasable Man: Chronicles of Zachary Artemas

by Christopher Salch

  A well worn recliner sitting in the corner of my office offered the perfect vehicle to lay back and let my mind float through all those images. Dealing with the sheer volume of information required I spend a great deal of time mentally filing and tagging the day's events. I'd imagined up countless shelves, filled with imaginary tomes and cross reference books until I could almost smell the musty scent of old paper, leather, and binder's glue. None of it really existed, but the visualization helped accomplish the mental gymnastics required to sift through it all when I needed to find some little tidbit.

  An hour later, with a cold, half empty cup of tea in my hand—I came up for air. Peeling myself out of the recliner after one of these sessions always turned into a chore. Some stretches helped to get my blood flowing again, but it would take another hour before the stiffness wore off completely. Trips through memory lane always left me feeling drained, as if I had been digging through a physical library rather than rummaging around inside my head.

  Candice herself, was a dead end. There were three potential addresses for a Candice Aberdeen—each with a different middle initial—and nothing else. I'd either have to talk to Sheridan or wait until her obituary showed up in the paper to get any further on that track.

  There was a bit more on Mulhullond—an address and a meager collection of articles—but not much. He lived in one of the more upscale neighborhoods and did very little to warrant his name appearing in the papers—staying under the radar as any respectable banker should. Sheridan had only been half right about the man's employer: Mr. Mulhullond didn't just work for Pocketville First National Bank—he was chairman of the board.

  Being that high up on the food chain would make most of my usual conversation starters come across as pretty thin—the two of us moved through very different layers of society. Unless I wanted to call out the big guns—I didn't relish the idea of owing Adam another favor—I would have to get creative if I ever wanted see Mr. Mulhullond's office door.

  To see Mulhullond, I needed to look like and act like someone who moved through the same echelon of society as he did. Today, that meant every crease in my suit had an edge sharp enough to draw blood. Getting to his office proved easier than I had expected since the bank building leased space to several other businesses and the elevators were wide open. The elevator exited into the office of Mulhullond's secretary, a much smaller room than his, but shared the same floor. She didn't look up when I stepped out onto the tile. Dark wood paneling covered most of the walls, with the exception of one floor-to-ceiling window opposite the secretary's desk.

  "I'm here to see Mr. Mulhullond," I said.

  "Do you have an appointment?" asked the young woman, brushing a lock of nearly white hair away from her face. One glance at me and she sat up straighter.

  "Of course not. I don't make appointments."

  "No one sees Mr. Mulhullond without an appointment." Her practiced smile cracked a little.

  I held her gaze, keeping my expression neutral, but she didn't seem anymore inclined to let me through.

  "My dear, I will only say this once more: I don't make appointments. Please inform Mr. Mulhullond that he has an important guest who would like to speak with him about a personal matter," I said, adding a bit of annoyance to my tone.

  "I'm sorry, sir," she replied, checking a calendar. "I might be able to fit you in sometime next month. What was your name again?"

  "You're not very good at listening are you? I have a matter to discuss with Michael now, not next month. Inform your employer that a guest is here to see him about Candice Aberdeen."

  The young woman's face went white at Candice's name. I just caught the motion of her hand pressing a button under the table. "I'm sorry sir. Mr. Mulhullond does not talk to anyone without an appointment."

  I glanced down at the nameplate on her desk. "Amber, trust me when I tell you that Mr. Mulhullond does not want to ignore me and will be quite displeased with you should you make it appear that he is. Inform him that I am here to speak with him about Miss Aberdeen, or there will be severe repercussions… for the both of you."

  "I'm sorry, but I can't… " her hand went to her ear. "Yes, sir, immediately sir."

  Amber looked at me again and went even paler. "Mr. Mulhullond will see you now, Mr. Tekcop."

  "Thank you, Amber," She winced with each word. "Don't ever use that name in my presence again. My name is Zachary Artemas, remember it."

  "Understood, sir," she stated. There was more than a little fear in her voice as she directed me through the door to Mr. Mulhullond's office proper. Apparently, too many people in all the wrong places knew my given name—one I'd given up to avoid the family legacy. A legacy that I'd walked away from over and over again only to be pulled back into the fold each time. It might have been different if I could actually leave Pocketville, but the consequences of trying that were even worse than bearing my family's name.

  Mulhullond was sitting behind an enormous, wooden desk covered with stacks of paper so neatly arranged that they looked like freshly unwrapped reams. The office itself was kept just as neat—the floor polished to a mirror finish and not a spec of dust anywhere on the wood paneling. A wall-spanning window framed Mulhullond's desk from behind.

  "It has been a long time since a Tekcop walked through those doors," he commented solemnly. "And even longer since I last saw you."

  "I don't use that name anymore, Mr. Mulhullond. It's Zachary Artemas now."

  "Oh? What does Janus think about that?"

  "My father was the one who suggested the idea," I said.

  "Hmph! How is the old bastard? I haven't spoken with him in years."

  "He's well. Or was the last time I spoke with him. We don't talk very much. I'm sure you know why I'm here," I said, changing the subject.

  "Candice Aberdeen. Nasty business that," stated Mulhullond. "What I don't know is why you want to talk to me."

  "Let's just say a little birdie told me you might know something."

  "Now wait just a damn minute!" he bellowed. "I let you in here because you're a Tekcop, and I used to be good friends with your father. That doesn't give you the right to accuse me of murder!"

  "Who said I was accusing you of anything? All I said was that you might know something."

  "Are you working with that asshole Xidorn? He came through here yesterday asking questions, making accusations," he yelled, then looked me in the eyes coldly. "I see why Janus threw you out!"

  "My father did not throw me out," I said, putting just a hint of an edge on my voice. Mulhullond's face boiled with barely contained rage as he sat back down. As much as I hated relying on it, the Tekcop name held significant sway in Pocketville. "Are you willing to have a civil conversation, or shall I prove, beyond all doubt, that there's still Tekcop blood in my veins?"

  "Sorry, that was out of line," he said, forcing his voice to a more civilized tone.

  "Mr. Mulhullond, just to set the record straight: I'm not here to accuse you of anything. I'm here to find a missing item that I believe is somehow involved in Candice's death. Now, did you or did you not have a relationship with her?"

  Mulhullond twitched but stayed silent, his anger seething behind his eyes.

  "Do you really think I'm bluffing?" I asked casually.

  "No, damn it! I mean yes! I had a relationship with the girl."

  "See how easy that was? Was the relationship ongoing or ending?" I asked.

  "Ended. The stupid wench didn't know how good a deal she had," he spat out.

  "I see. What kind of deal was that?"

  "She had Amber's job until last week. Candice received more than ample compensation for her duties and… extracurricular activities. My assistants have company provided apartments one floor down and a special stipend for attire," stated Mulhullond. "And she knew how to spend it."

  "Spare me the details," I growled. The image of Candice's face, sans skin, crept into my mind. "Did this compensation include medical services?"

  "What!?" Mulhullond
choked out. "I never hurt that girl!"

  The phrase "that girl" echoed in my mind, feeding my own anger.

  "Xidorn seemed to think you liked it rough."

  "That bastard! So I play hard, what of it? I draw the line at leaving marks. You wouldn't mar fine china, would you?" asked Mulhullond.

  "But she wasn't your china anymore, was she?"

  "You should know me better than that, Zachary. Your father did. I'm no murderer!"

  "No, you're not a murderer. On the other hand, you are a man with connections," I replied.

  "Get out! I don't care if you are a Tekcop. No one accuses me in my own damn office!"

  I left, stopping for a moment to verify a few of Mulhullond's statements with Amber. Everything checked out; she had started as Mulhullond's administrative assistant just over a week ago to replace Candice. Then Mulhullond stormed out of his office and glared me into the elevator.

  Pushing him, while informative, hadn't yielded anything immediately useful. I was reasonably certain that Mulhullond hadn't killed Candice, at least not directly; knife work didn't seem like his style. If she had been beaten to death, I might have pinned it on him, but peeling her face off just didn't fit.

  I stopped at a pay phone outside the bank building and dialed a random number.

  "Adam, I need a… " I started without waiting for the first ring.

  "You already owe me, Artemas," replied Adam. "Are you certain you want to make another deal so soon?"

  "That's more like it. What was that, less than a second? Are you keeping tabs on me?"

  "You owe me, Artemas," he said. "Get to the point."

  "Don't be such a spoilsport. I need a record of any phone calls Michael Mulhullond makes."

  "That is so simple it is almost beneath my notice," responded Adam. "I am not your personal wiretap."

  "No, I owe you a favor that I'm certain you want to collect. Mulhullond gave me the distinct impression that he doesn't like me. I'm expecting he will send someone after me in the near future," I could almost hear the gears turning in Adam's head as I waited for his answer.

  "You're a shrewd man, Artemas. This will be added to your already considerable debt."

  I cringed as I imagined the favor in my head doubling again. "I'll be waiting to hear from you."

  The phone started ringing again as I finished speaking. Trying to manipulate the Hidden was an even more dangerous proposition than owing him a favor. I just hoped I lived through whatever Adam wanted me to do when he called in my debt. The phone clicked and the ringing stopped, pulling me out of my own thoughts.

  "Hello?" said a woman's voice in the ear piece.

  "Sorry, wrong number," I said and hung up.

  CHAPTER NINE

  T- 17 Years - The House Between

  It had been too long since Janus had last visited the Ossuarium and even longer since he'd stepped out of the darkness around the edges of the room. The moniker was a bit of a misnomer, as the room held no bones, just obsidian statues cast in wet, black stone. The statues were arranged in rings facing a central column that was capped by a faintly glowing ivory sphere. Each statue was the figure of a man or woman whose limbs were spread wide as if bound hand and foot to invisible pillars on either side. Their extremities seemed to flow into ill-defined amorphous blobs of shiny stone instead of ropes or shackles. Some of them were slumped as if asleep, while the faces of others were contorted in fear or pain that only they could understand.

  Janus looked over them as he walked between the rows, always amazed at how perfectly they captured the original's form and the agony they must have felt. He used to visit more frequently—walking among the shadows cast by the dim light of the sphere and admiring his own additions to the outer rings. But the addition of one particular statue—set in a special place near the central column—had forever changed his perceptions. She was the one who brought joy to his life—the one he had condemned to never see the outside world again.

  The statue stood just as he had left it, the only one facing away from the central column. Her face was still smooth and serene with the glow of youth and something else he'd not known at the time. No fear marred her eyes and no pain twisted her face—she'd gone through the transfer without so much as a twitch.

  Behind her, the grey stone of the sphere's pillar stood silently—its surface carved with thousands upon thousands of tiny human figures. Those closer to the glowing sphere were the most distinct, their faces sharp and clear, almost lifelike. The majority appeared as though they were writhing, arms reaching for the emptiness around them, eyes pleading, mouths gasping silent screams. Others seemed at peace, their faces serene and calm as they were subsumed by the madness around them. Further down the figures became more indistinct—their features melding with the surrounding stone as though worn away by time—until nothing remained but a smooth surface that blended into the floor with a gentle curve.

  Janus looked into the lone statue's eyes, staring deeply as if those obsidian orbs could swallow him. He could almost see a hint of sadness there that he hadn't when her body was flesh and blood. A single tiny tear had been captured in the process of forming near the corner of her eye, frozen unrealized for all time in cold stone.

  "If only we had known," whispered Janus, cupping her ice cold cheek with his hand. "We were so foolish to believe—"

  "Do you find it peaceful to walk among the damned?" asked an all-too-familiar voice behind him.

  "You should be more respectful. The essence of these people feeds your world," said Janus, turning to face the intruder. "I come here to pay my respects—"

  "And to mourn your lost wife and child!" mocked the stranger, brushing imagined dust from the shoulder of his spotless white jacket. "You know as well as I do it's not my world."

  "That was uncalled for."

  "You're right. I should have told the truth and said imprisoned wife and child. That would have been much more appropriate."

  "What do you want?" asked Janus.

  "I came, as you said, to pay my respects and to give you fair warning. A hunter is coming for your new prize."

  "You know what the consequences will be as well as I do."

  "Oh, I do, and I don't care," said the stranger. "You know what I stand to gain—freedom from my world!" He spat out the last words as though they were rotten.

  "Are we going to play this game again?" asked Janus. "The last time, I took Pocketville from you. You can't beat me."

  "Ha! Do you really believe that, Janus? Your new prize will be your undoing!" said the Man in White as he turned and walked back into the shadows. "Don't worry, you won't have to wait long… "

  "Paige!" yelled Janus. "I need to speak with Ruth immediately. Please notify her I'll be at the house."

  From the outside, it looked much as any other house on the street, a single-story brick building with a gently sloping roof and well manicured lawn. In another few hours, the street would be full of parked cars and playing children. If someone watched long enough, they might notice that no one seemed to live in this particular house. No cars, no people coming and going, nothing but the occasional maintenance crew mowing the lawn.

  Ruth walked up to the front door and took a deep breath, readying herself for what lay inside. She could still remember the first time she'd seen the house—soon-to-be newlyweds looking for a place to call their own. That had been on a different street in a different city, and yet the house looked the same as she remembered it. With a sigh, she opened the door and stepped through, into her past.

  "Ruth, my darling! How long has it been?" said Janus smiling. He was sitting on the couch, resting with a cup of coffee in his hand. "Would you like some? I can have Paige get—"

  "Bastard!"

  "Come now! What did I do to deserve that? Here it's been weeks since we've seen each other and you greet me like that!"

  "You didn't warn her! You didn't tell that girl one damn thing! You walked her into that chamber with dollar signs in her eyes and didn't even give h
er the courtesy of a last cigarette," said Ruth.

  "If you're talking about Anne, I gave her the orientation materials. It's not my fault she didn't read them thoroughly," said Janus opening his hands.

  "Oh really! What did these 'orientation materials' say about transference? She knew nothing!" yelled Ruth. Her eyes were coal black and smoldering with inner heat. "You just wanted another statue for your collection!"

  "Ruth, I'm not here to fight," pleaded Janus. "And this is not the place or the time."

  "There isn't any other place, and you damn well know it."

  Janus sighed and walked over to the window, pulling the curtain aside with one finger. He could feel the cold glass sucking heat from his skin as he stared into the emptiness beyond. What he saw wasn't the darkness of night or something as simple as the absence of illumination, but a hungry, devouring void that tore at human eyes like a ravenous beast.

  "Perhaps you're right. I should have warned her," placated Janus, letting the curtain drop closed again. "But, what's done is done. How is she doing now?"

  "Recovering. I don't believe there will be any lasting injury," said Ruth.

  "That's good. And Zachary, how is he doing?"

  "He's doing well. He hasn't come by to see me recently but I've had eyes on him," said Ruth. "Have you found a solution yet? I was hoping to show our son the outside world before he's too old to care about things like that."

  "No," said Janus, unable to hold her gaze. He contemplated looking out the window again but decided against it. "None of the animal experiments have turned out any better than that first… accident. The mother, the child, or both are lost even with additional material in the receiving chamber. The technicians are hopeful—"