Nevermore

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  And the owners of this garage were just as bad. Peering through the very small, very filthy windows of the garage door, Dean could just make out several cars, and the big locks that kept them safe from being stolen. But by leaving a door like this with just a crap lock on it, an enterprising thief could easily break in and make off with the smaller pieces of equipment or car parts that were there for the asking.

  Reaching into his jeans pocket, he took out his lock pick and within seconds had the small door open.

  At which point a loud beeping noise started, loud enough to make Dean’s eardrums vibrate.

  Looking around quickly, he located the alarm code pad, ran to it, saw which model it was and knew that it only required a three-digit code, and entered the garage’s cross street: 199.

  The beeping stopped as soon as he hit the enter button. Let’s hear it for stupid people!

  With the alarm silenced, he jogged back to the door and shut it. No sense in advertising that there’s a break-in. The only cop he wanted to encounter this trip was McBain.

  Dean considered leaving some kind of memento of his presence, just as an object lesson to Manny and his employees that their security sucked. Back when he was a kid, about eleven years old, he used to go looking for cars that had “No Radio in Car” signs on them. He’d take a removable radio, of a type that was very popular at the time, and throw it as hard as he could at the car window with a note wrapped around it that read, now you have one. Really, did anyone think that sign would actually stop people from breaking into their cars?

  “Ow, fiddlesticks!” someone screamed from the back room, just as something metal crashed to the floor.

  Dean’s eyes went wide. Fiddlesticks?

  Slowly, removing the pistol tucked into the back of his jeans, he moved toward the back room, past two Geo Metros and a Prius. For a brief instant he gazed longingly at the Prius—not so much for its elegance, as it was a truly butt-ugly vehicle, but for the hybrid car’s gas mileage. The Impala had many virtues, but it also guzzled gas like a sonofabitch, and at anywhere from two to three bucks a gallon, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her fed.

  Once he got past the Prius, he saw that there was a flashlight waving around a back room. That room had an almost closed door with the word OFFICE stenciled in faded gold letters on a grease-streaked window.

  Dean slowly walked up to the door, and saw a short guy with a patch of baldness on his crown surrounded by thin brown hair. The guy was kneeling down with his back to him, so that was all he could see of him, but he could also see that the guy was spreading some kind of dust on the office’s red Oriental rug. He was wearing a brown polyester suit that wouldn’t have been out of place on a used car salesman or a weekend golfer.

  The man was chanting something under his breath. Dean didn’t recall anything this guy was doing as part of Samuels’s ritual, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t.

  Kicking the door open, he thumbed off the pistol’s safety and said, “Don’t move.”

  To his credit, Ugly Suit Guy immediately stopped chanting and held up his hands, which were wearing grime-covered latex gloves. “Please, it’s very important that you listen to me. I understand that I have broken into your place of business, but if you do not let me complete this ritual I have started, someone will die. There is a madman out there killing people in an attempt to resurrect the dead, and I must stop him before he kills again!”

  Dean frowned. That wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.

  Then the guy turned around, and Dean recognized the big nose, small eyes, thin lips, and cleft chin from the Poe enthusiast’s website.

  “You’re Arthur Gordon Pym.”

  The beady eyes went as wide as they could. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir—unless you are the Manny indicated on the sign for this—”

  “Just shut up a sec, okay, Artie? And yeah, I do have you at a disadvantage, ’cause I got the gun. I also know that your real name is Arthur Mackey, that you live here in the Bronx, that you own Pendulum Pit Inc., and that you’re the one trying to resurrect Poe, so cut the crap, okay?”

  Very slowly getting to his feet, and, Dean noticed, being careful not to move suddenly, Mackey said, “I can assure you, sir, that I have no intention of resurrecting anyone. Edgar Allan Poe is quite dead, and I’m content to leave him that way. I’ve seen resurrected corpses before, and they’re—” Mackey shuddered. “—rather disturbing.”

  Remembering the zombie chick who broke Sam’s arm, Dean sympathized, but he wasn’t ready to believe this goober just yet. “How do you know about the resurrection spell?”

  “I learned of it at the Walsh Library at nearby Fordham University, actually. I am quite curious as to how you know of it—and who you are.”

  “Yeah, well, keep wonderin’, ’cause I still got the gun and—”

  The sounds of “Smoke on the Water” emitted from Dean’s pocket. Then it stopped, then it started again.

  Keeping the pistol cocked in one hand, he reached into his pocket with the other and flipped open the phone: two missed calls from Sam, which meant either he got crappy cell reception around here or Sam was signaling to him that he was in trouble and needed his help but couldn’t actually talk on the phone.

  After mulling for half a second, Dean waved his pistol. “Get up, Artie, you’re comin’ with me.”

  “Please, sir, I need to locate the killer before—”

  “If these calls mean what I think they mean, my brother’s already found the killer.”

  Mackey’s thin lips pursed to the point where they pretty much disappeared. “Your brother?”

  Grabbing the lapels of Mackey’s ugly jacket, Dean yanked him out of the office. “Just move your ass, Artie.”

  Dragging Mackey across the garage, Dean went back to the front door.

  “Sir, I must protest this treatment. If your brother—whoever he is, and whoever you are—have found the killer, I’ll be happy to come with you and assist in whatever meager way I can, but—”

  Dean stopped, turned, and put the muzzle of the gun under Mackey’s chin. “Do you ever shut up?”

  Mackey swallowed, his Adam’s apple sliding across the muzzle.

  Letting out a snarl, Dean lowered the pistol, thumbed the safety back on, and stuck the gun back in his pants before going back onto the street. That was another reason to avoid getting the attention of any member of the NYPD not named McBain—the handgun laws in this state were among the nastier in the country. Of course, with the murder charge, it was the least of his worries, but it was also the kind of thing that drew attention.

  They walked quickly down to the corner and then to the front door that Sam was supposed to have gone through.

  Dean’s concerns about how to get in that door were taken care of pretty quickly when he saw that Sam was standing in the doorway, propping the door open with his foot. He also wasn’t moving, but Dean could hear someone talking.

  Staring down at Mackey, he put his finger to his lips. Mackey nodded and stayed a step behind Dean as they both quietly moved up the small staircase to the front door. Dean took out his pistol. Screw the handgun laws, if someone’s messing with my brother.

  Sam was talking now, holding his hands up in a nonthreatening position. His Treo was palmed in his left hand, which was probably how he’d signaled Dean. “Look, I understand what you’re going through, but—”

  “And I’m tellin’ you right now that it ain’t right what the right is doin’ to this country, it ain’t right, and the right’s gotta know what’s right, ’cause it ain’t right, you feel me? Do you? Do you?”

  “Of course I do, now just please, sir, put the gun down.”

  Crap. From the sounds of it, some looney-tunes with a gun was off his meds and taking it out on Sam. They didn’t have time for this crap.

  Dean walked up behind his brother and next to him. He could see, now, that there was a bald African-American man wearing an undershirt and boxer shorts and waving a
revolver around fast enough that Dean couldn’t tell if it was cocked or not. He didn’t particularly want to find out the hard way that it was. The man was pacing back and forth across the narrow hallway, right next to a metal door that was ajar.

  “Sam?” Dean said, his own pistol pointed right at the guy’s smooth head as he went back and forth.

  “Who that? You ’nother one? ’Nother one from’a gummint? I ain’t listenin’ to no more from you white folks with your pills an’ your gummint an’ your doctors and none’a that! Flushed them pills down the toilet, let the alligators at ’em, that’s what I did. Don’t be tellin’ me I need no pills for nothin’!”

  “Sir,” Sam said in his most reasonable voice, “I can assure you that we’re not from the government. We’re trying to stop a killer, and—”

  “So, what, you cops? Don’t like me no cops, cops be takin’ me to the hospital, an’ they be givin’ me the pills! I don’t take that, you feel me?”

  “No, sir, we’re private investigators. We’ve been hired to find a killer because the cops couldn’t handle it.”

  “Damn right, the cops can’t handle it. No cops in no town don’t know nothin’ ’bout nothin’.”

  “But, sir,” Sam said, “we can’t catch the killer unless you let me and my partner in.”

  Dean winced. Sam hadn’t seen Mackey yet, and he hoped that this guy didn’t bust a gasket when he found out Sam had two partners.

  “Maybe you can help,” Sam said. “If you help us, you’ll be a hero.”

  That, finally, got the guy to stop pacing, which, if nothing else, gave Dean a clearer shot. “A hero? Like Superman?”

  “Exactly, sir, like Superman. You’ll stop a horrible killer and you’ll be in the newspapers and on television.”

  “That’d be good. I like television. ’Cept the news, don’t like that, but Oprah’s cool. She knows what’s happenin’, she knows what’s right, not like the right don’t know what’s right.”

  “Sir, can you tell me if any of the apartments in this building are empty?”

  Dean glanced at his brother, wondering if Sam was really expecting a straight answer from this garbanzo.

  “They say they empty, but they lie, I know what goes on up there. Up in 2B, they say they ain’t nobody there, but I know they plannin’, they plottin’, they doin’ all sortsa stuff up there, I’m tellin’ you right now, it ain’t right what the right’s doin’, and they be doin’ it in 2B, that’s for damn sure, I’m right about that right now!”

  “Okay, thank you, sir.” Sam lowered his arms. “If it’s okay, we’re gonna go check out Apartment 2B, okay?”

  “It ain’t right what the right be doin’ right up there, you feel me?”

  “I know, sir,” Sam said, “I know, that’s why we’re gonna stop it.”

  “You be tellin’ those news people, it was Omar that done help you. Ain’t no last name, though, ’cause that be my slave name that the right gave me, and they got no right to be doin’ that to my rights, you feel me?”

  “Absolutely, Omar. We’ll tell the news people you helped us catch the killer that the cops couldn’t.”

  Omar nodded so fast Dean thought his head would fall off. “Damn right. Damn cops. Damn straight, those damn cops couldn’t find no damn nothin’.”

  “Thank you, Omar. We really appreciate it.”

  “No sweat, my brother. You get that killer and show the right that they don’t got the right to be givin’ nobody no pills that they don’t be needin’.”

  Sam gave Omar a quick nod. “We will.”

  “Good.”

  With that, Omar went through the metal door and slammed it shut.

  Dean let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Well, that was fun.”

  “We must hurry,” Mackey said.

  Sam turned around and looked down the stoop at Mackey, who was putting on a fresh pair of latex gloves. “You’re Arthur Gordon Pym.”

  “I seem to be quite the celebrity,” he said dryly. “Yes, I’m Pym, and we can’t dally when there’s a killer to be caught.”

  Looking at Dean, Sam said, “He’s not the killer?”

  Dean shrugged. “I found him doing some kind of ritual in the mechanic’s office.”

  “I was endeavoring to pinpoint the locus of the spell.”

  “It isn’t a spell, Artie,” Dean said.

  Mackey recoiled as if Dean had slapped him. “I beg your pardon?”

  Sam said, “We’re pretty sure the spell’s bogus, Mr. Pym. So if you were trying to do a locator spell, it wouldn’t have worked. There’s no real magic here, we don’t think.”

  “Well, much as I’m often willing to take the words of two young thugs whom I’ve never met, I prefer to believe my own tried and true methods over the rantings and ravings of callow youth.”

  Holding up the pistol, Dean said, “Uh, Artie? Still have the gun.”

  “Let’s get upstairs,” Sam said, glancing around nervously, “before somebody else notices we’re here.”

  The trio all came into the narrow hallway, which was covered in grime and dirt that looked to Dean as if it dated back to the Reagan administration.

  “Where’d Omar come from, anyhow?” Dean asked.

  Sam shrugged. “He just burst out into the hallway waving the gun around and babbling like an idiot. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to talk him down, which is why I signaled you.”

  At the back of the hallway was a narrow staircase that twisted around 360 degrees by the time it reached the next floor. Dean wondered how the hell anybody got furniture up.

  There was also a faint smell of urine in the hallway. As soon as they got to the top of the stairs, Dean took the lead, heading straight to the door with the shiny new 2B in gold on it. He assumed that since it was empty and being shown off to people, the landlord was trying to make it look good. It was the only one of the four apartments on the floor that even had a label on it, though he could see worn holes where the number 2 and accompanying letters used to be.

  Then he heard the sound of wood being snapped in half.

  Turning to signal Sam, Dean was knocked aside by Mackey, who cried, “We’ve got to get in there, now!”

  Next time yell a little louder, jackass, there are people in New Jersey who may not have heard you, Dean thought angrily as Mackey grabbed the doorknob with his gloved hand and pushed it open.

  Now Dean could clearly hear wood snapping. Given that the apartment Mackey revealed was completely empty except for some shiny new hardwood on the floor, Dean figured it was the flooring. Wasn’t one of Poe’s stories about hiding a corpse in the floorboards?

  Mackey ran in and promptly tripped and fell on his face.

  Glancing down, Dean saw that someone had taken the precaution of laying down a trip wire a few feet into the front room.

  Dean and Sam both ran in, jumping over the trip wire, and went into the next room, where the sound was coming from.

  Or, rather, they tried to. Mackey chose the moment when Sam was stepping over him to try to get up, and his shoulder collided with Sam’s long legs. The two of them went down in a tangle of denim and polyester.

  Dean stepped over both of them, even as Sam practically kicked Mackey off him.

  “Hold it!” Dean yelled as he ran in, pistol ready. But he only saw two legs going out the window onto the fire escape. The stench of decaying meat made Dean’s nostril hairs stand at attention.

  Dean went straight for the window, pausing to turn around for only a second. “Stay with that jackass!” he said to Sam, pointing at Mackey, who was stumbling into the room, brushing dust off his polyester suit. Dean also caught sight of several pieces of ripped-up hardwood and bits of wormwood.

  He turned and climbed through the window.

  How the hell did we miss this? If he was remembering the Poe story right, the victim was killed and cut into pieces and buried under the floorboards. It was “The Tell-Tale Heart,” one of the good ones—if nothing else, it was shor
t. Did their bad guy commit murder quietly?

  That was a question for later. Right now he had a scumbag to catch. The dark figure was already on the 199th Street sidewalk. Dean squeezed himself into the tiny opening that took him to the metal ladder that went down to the street.

  His feet hit the pavement and Dean bent his knees with the impact. Turning, he saw that his prey had run up to the next street—Decatur Avenue—and turned left. Dean gave chase, thrilled to have some action after sitting on his ass for so long. As he ran up the hill to the next street, he started going over the different ways he was going to kick this guy’s ass, especially since he’d managed to commit another murder right under their noses.

  As soon as he got to the corner of 199th and Decatur, however, headlights shone right in his face. Holding up one arm to protect his eyes, Dean raised his pistol with the other, but the car attached to the headlights was moving toward him down Decatur.

  Dean couldn’t see anybody on the street as the car zoomed past, and between the headlights and the darkness—it was a new moon, and there weren’t that many streetlights around here—he couldn’t make out anything distinctive about the car, beyond the fact that it was a dark sedan.

  “Dammit!” he screamed, not caring who noticed him right now.

  Dean went back to the building and climbed back up the fire escape. Going in the front door would risk another confrontation with Omar, and he didn’t trust himself not to just shoot the bastard in the mood he was in.

  Of course, Artie Mackey was another story.

  Climbing back in through the window, Dean said before Sam could ask: “I lost him.”

  “Blast,” Mackey said.

  Sam looked at Mackey. “I didn’t think anybody said that outside of comic books.”

  Mackey shrugged. “I have two children, so I endeavor to use proper language. It’s a pity you weren’t able to apprehend our killer.”