by Brian Lumley
What? Wasted talents? The dead wanted to help him?
But didn’t they always? What had she been up to? What’s that, Ma? he said. About the dead? And what did you mean: I’m wasting my time?
In trying to contact Möbius, that’s what I mean, she immediately answered. If only you’d stay in touch you’d know! Why, we’ve been trying to get hold of Möbius for you ever since you got your deadspeak back!
You what? But … how? Möbius isn’t here. He’s out there somewhere. He could be anywhere. Literally anywhere!
We know that, she answered, and also that anywhere’s a big place. We haven’t found him yet. But if and when we do he’ll get your message and, we hope, get back to you. Meanwhile you needn’t concern yourself about it. You can get on with other things.
Ma, said Harry, you don’t understand. Listen: Möbius is probably in the Möbius Continuum. The dead-even the massed thoughts of all the dead—couldn’t possibly reach him there. It’s a place that isn’t of this universe. So you see it’s not so much that I’m wasting my time, but that you are wasting yours!
He could sense her shaking her head. And: Son, she said, when Harry Jr. took away your deadspeak and your mathematical intuition, did he also addle your brains?
Eh?
When you use the Möbius Continuum, how much time do you actually spend in it?
And he at once saw that she was right, and wondered: is logic linked with numeracy in the human mind? Has my son diluted my powers of reason, too? No time, he said. It’s instantaneous. Möbius wasn’t in the Möbius Continuum—he merely used it to get wherever he was going.
Exactly. So why waste your time aiming deadspeak thoughts at his grave in Leipzig, eh? It’s like you said: he’s out there somewhere. An astronomer in life, death hasn’t changed him. So right now there are an awful lot of us directing our thoughts outwards to the stars! And if he’s there we’ll find him, eventually.
Harry had to give in to her. Ma, what would I do without you?
I was only putting you straight, Harry. Telling you that between times you should get on with other things.
Such as?
Harry, you have access to the most extensive library in the world, books which not only hold knowledge but can also impart it. The minds of the dead are like books for you to read, and their talents are all there to be learned. Just as you learned from Möbius, so you can learn from the rest of us.
But that was something Harry had long ago considered, and long since turned down. Dragosani had learned from the dead, too. Thibor Ferenczy had instructed him—in evil. Likewise, as a necromancer, Dragosani had stolen the talents of Max Batu, and the secrets of the Soviet E-Branch from Gregor Borowitz. And yet none of these things had helped him in the end. Indeed, Batu’s evil eye had assisted in his destruction! No, there were certain things, like the future, which Harry preferred not to know. And these thoughts of his were deadspeak, which of course his mother read at once.
Maybe you’re right, she said, but still you should keep it in mind. There are talents here, Harry, and if and when you need them they’re yours for the asking …
Her voice was fading now, dwindling away into dreams. But at least this time Harry would remember their conversation. And at last, weary now in mind and body both, he relaxed, let go, sank down even deeper into dream and lay suspended there, simply sleeping. For a little while. Until—
Haaarry? It was Möbius! Harry would know his dead-speak anywhere. But even by dreaming standards Mobius’s voice was … dreamy. For this was a very different Möbius, a changed Möbius.
August Ferdinand? Is that you? I’ve been looking for you. I mean, a great many of us have been searching for you everywhere.
I know, Harry. I was … out there. But you were right and they were wrong. I was in the Continuum! For as long as I could bear it, anyway. The thoughts of your dead friends reached me as I emerged.
Harry didn’t understand. What’s to bear? he asked. The Möbius Continuum is what it is.
Is it? Möbius’s voice was still mazed and wandering, like that of a sleepwalker, or a man in some sort of trance. Is it, Harry? Or is it much more than it appears to be? But … it’s strange, my boy, so strange. I would have talked to you about it—I wanted to—but you’ve been away so long, Haaarry.
That wasn’t my fault, Harry told him. Icouldn’t keep in touch, wasn’t able to. Something had happened to me—to my deadspeak—and I was cut off from everyone. And that’s one of the reasons why I had to contact you now. You see, it’s not just that I’d lost my deadspeak, but also my ability to use the Möbius Continuum. And I need it like I never needed it before.
The Continuum? Need it? Still Möbius wasn’t entirely himself, far from it. Oh, we all need it, Harry. Indeed, without it there’s nothing! It is EVERYTHING! And … and … and I’m sorry, Harry, but I have to go back there.
That’s all right, Harry desperately answered, feeling Möbius’s deadspeak sliding off at a tangent. And I swear I wouldn’t be troubling you if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but-
It … it talks to me! Möbius’s voice was an awestruck whisper, drifting, fading as his attention transferred itself elsewhere. And I think I know what it is. The only thing it can be. I have … to … go … now … Haaarry.
Another moment and he had gone, disappeared, and not even an echo remaining. So that Harry knew Möbius had returned to the one place above all others which was now forbidden to him. Into the Möbius Continuum.
Finally Harry was left alone to sleep out a night which, for all that it was dreamless, was nevertheless uneasy …
The next morning, on their way in Manolis’s car to see Trevor Jordan, something which had been bothering Harry suddenly surfaced. “Manolis,” he said, “I’m an idiot! I should have thought of it before.”
The Greek glanced at him. “Thought of what, Harry?”
“The KGB knew I was going to Romania. They knew it almost before I did. I mean, they were waiting for me when I landed—goons of theirs, anyway. So, someone must have told them. Someone here on Rhodes!”
For a moment Manolis looked blank, but then he grinned and slapped his thigh. “Harry,” he said, “you are the very strange person with the extremely weird powers—but I think you will never make the policeman! Yesterday, when you told us your story, I thought it was understood that I must arrive at this selfsame conclusion. And of course I did. My next step was to ask myself who knew you were going other than your immediate circle? Answer: no one—except the booking clerk at the airport itself! The local police are looking into it right now. If there is an answer, they will find it.”
“Good!” said Harry. “But the point I’m making is this: the last thing I want is that someone should be waiting for me in Hungary, too. I mean, if it works out that I must go there.”
Manolis nodded. “I understand your concern. Let’s just hope the local boys turn something up.”
Neither Manolis, Harry, nor Darcy had any way of knowing that at that very moment the police were at the airport, talking to a man who worked on the passenger information desk; to him and to his brother, against whom they’d long entertained certain grudges and suspicions of their own. Talking to them, and not much caring for the answers they were getting, but sure that eventually they’d get the right ones.
At the asylum a Sister met the three and took them to Jordan’s room. He had a room now as opposed to a cell: a small place with high, barred windows, and a door with a peephole. The door was locked from the outside; obviously the doctors were still a little wary. The Sister looked through the peephole and smiled, and beckoned Harry forward. He followed her example and looked into the room. Jordan was striding to and fro in the confined space, his hands clasped behind his back. Harry knocked and the other at once stopped pacing and looked up. His face was alive now, alert and expectant.
“Harry?” he called out. “Is that you?”
“Yes, it is,” Harry answered. “Just give us a moment.”
The Sis
ter unlocked the door and the three went in. She waited outside.
Inside, Jordan took Darcy’s hand and shook it; he slapped Manolis on the back, then stood stock still and slowly smiled Harry a greeting. “So,” he said, “and we have the Necroscope back on our team, eh?”
“For a while,” Harry answered, returning his smile. And: “You scared us, Trevor. We thought he’d wrecked your mind.”
Darcy Clarke, after the initial handshake, had backed off a little, but unobtrusively. Now he mumbled: “Will you excuse me a moment?” He went back out into the corridor, with Manolis following quickly on behind. In the corridor Darcy was standing beside the Sister—or rather, he was leaning against the wall. And his face was white!
“What is it?” Manolis hissed. “I’ve seen that look on your face before.”
“Call Harry out of there,” Darcy whispered. “Quickly!”
The Sister was beginning to look alarmed but Darcy cautioned her with a ringer to his lips.
“Harry,” Manolis’s voice was casual as he leaned back into the room. “Would you come out here a moment?”
“Do you mind?” Harry lifted an eyebrow, glanced at Jordan.
“Not at all,” the other shook his head and smiled strangely, knowingly. Harry went out to the others.
“What is it?”
Darcy closed the door and turned the key. He looked at Harry and his Adam’s apple was working. “It’s all wrong!” he said. “There’s something … not right with him. In fact nothing’s right with him!”
Harry’s soulful eyes studied his drawn, trembling face. “Your talent?”
“Yes. That doesn’t feel like Trevor. It looks like him, but it doesn’t feel like him. Not to my guardian angel. My talent wouldn’t let me stay in there.”
“Harry?” came Jordan’s voice from beyond the door. “What’s the delay? Look, I have something to tell you—but only you. Can’t we talk, you and I, face to face?”
Manolis was quick off the mark. He showed the Sister his police identification, again warned her to silence as Darcy had done, with a finger to his lips, took out his Beretta and gave that to Harry. And: “Leave the door ajar behind you, and we’ll stay right here,” he said.
“But,” said Darcy, his voice wobbly, “will that stop him?” He indicated the gun in Harry’s hand.
Harry nodded. “He’s not a vampire,” he said. He put the gun into an inside pocket of his jacket, unlocked the door and went through it. Inside the room Jordan had sat down in an armchair. There was another chair facing him and he beckoned Harry to take it. Harry sat down … but carefully, warily, never taking his eyes off the man opposite. “Well,” he finally said, “and here I am. So what’s the big mystery, Trevor?”
“All of a sudden,” said the other, still smiling his weird, knowing smile, “you’re not so concerned about me.” And Harry noticed how he formed his words slowly, carefully, making sure he got them right.
Right there and then the Necroscope guessed what Jordan’s trouble was and decided to put it to the test. “Oh, I’m concerned about you, all right,” he forced a smile onto his face. “In fact you wouldn’t believe just how concerned I am! Trevor, do you remember what you people at E-Branch used to call Harry Jr. when you looked after him that time?”
The strange, almost insinuating expression slid from Jordan’s face. His features went slack and gaunt, his eyes blank, but just for a moment or two. Then … animation returned and he said: “Oh, of course. The Boss, that’s what we called him!”
“That’s right—” Harry nodded, and reached for the gun in his pocket, “—but you were much too slow in remembering. And you were the one who was always especially fond of him. It’s not something you’d need time to think about—or enquire about?—if you were you!”
As his gun started to come into view, so Jordan moved. Previously the man’s movements had seemed slow to match his speech … but so are the movements of a chameleon before its tongue flickers into deadly life. And Janos’s grip was strong on Jordan’s mind. He moved like lightning, his left hand grabbing Harry’s throat and his right bearing down on his gun hand, ramming it back inside his jacket. The Necroscope’s reflexes took over. As Jordan straightened up from his chair, Harry kicked him hard between the legs … useless, for the mind which controlled Jordan’s body simply turned the pain aside. In return, Jordan released Harry’s throat and back-handed him with a clenched fist hard as iron! Before his eyes could focus from that, Jordan had lifted him half out of his chair and tried to butt him in the face. In the last moment Harry saw it coming and managed to turn his face aside, but even so the crushing hammer force of the man’s head against his temple dazed and shook him. Before he could recover, Jordan let him fall back into his chair and dragged his gun hand into view. Then—
The door burst open and Manolis hurled himself into the room. Darcy was right behind him, defying his leery talent’s every effort to turn him back. Grunting his frustration, Jordan tried one last time, without effect, to wrench Harry’s gun out of his hand before Manolis hit him. And the compact Greek policeman knew exactly how to hit. He shouldered Jordan back from Harry, drop-kicked him and knocked him down, then scrabbled his hands out from under him where he tried to push himself to his feet.
Then Harry was between them, pointing his gun directly at Jordan’s forehead. “Don’t make me!” he shouted at the possessed man, his words sharp as gravel chips. Jordan sat up and snarled at him, at all three of them.
“I was not the one to threaten!” he growled, his voice no longer that of the Jordan they had known. “You threatened me!”
“That’s right,” Harry answered, “you haven’t threatened me personally, not yet, but you would sooner or later … Janos Ferenczy!” He made motions with his gun, indicating that the other should stand up.
Janos, in Jordan’s body, did so, and stood glowering at the three who ringed him in. And: “Well then, Harry Keogh,” he finally grunted, “and so you know me now. Very well, all subterfuge aside, we meet at last. But I wanted to know you, and I wanted you to know something of my power. You see how easily I have occupied this mind? Telepathy? Hah! Trevor Jordan was the veriest amateur!”
“Your powers don’t impress me,” Harry lied. “The stench from a dead pig is likewise strong!”
“You … you dare!” the other took a pace forward.
Harry gritted his teeth and carefully aimed the gun right between Jordan’s eyes—
—And smiling crookedly, the possessed man came to a grudging halt. Then … he staggered.
Harry narrowed his eyes. “What…?”
“I … I have pushed this weakling’s flabby body too far,” Janos Ferenczy grunted from Jordan’s throat. “Allow me to sit down.”
“Sit,” Harry told him. And as the other flopped into his chair, and sat there reeling, the Necroscope once more seated himself opposite. “Now out with it, Janos,” he said. “Why did you want to see me? To kill me?”
“Kill you?” Janos laughed a baying laugh. “If I were so desperate to have you dead, believe me you would be dead! But no, I want you alive!”
“Wait!” Manolis came closer. “Harry, are you saying that this is Janos Ferenczy? Is this really the Vrykoulakas?”
Janos/Jordan scowled at him. “Greek, you are a fool!”
Manolis moved closer still, but Darcy took his arm. “It’s his mind,” he said, “his telepathy, controlling Trevor’s body.”
“Kill him now!” Manolis said at once.
“That’s just it,” Harry answered. “I wouldn’t be killing him but poor Jordan.”
Janos laughed again. “You are helpless,” he said. “Why, I could walk out of here! You are like small children!” Then he stopped laughing and scowled at Harry. “And so you are the all-powerful Necroscope, eh? The man who talks to the dead, the famous vampire-killer. Well, I think you are nothing!”
“Do you?” said Harry. “And is that why you’re here, to tell me that? Fine, so you’ve told me. Now scurry off
back to your Carpathian castle and get your filthy leech’s mind out of my friend’s head!”
The eyes in Jordan’s head glared until they seemed about to leap from their orbits, and his hands trembled where they gripped the arms of the chair. But finally: “It … will … be … my … my great pleasure to meet you again, Harry Keogh,” he said, grinding his teeth. “But man to man, face to face.”
Harry was practised in the ways of the Wamphyri. He knew how to hurl weighty insults. “Man to man?” he gave a snort of derision. “You elevate yourself to ridiculous heights, Janos. And face to face? Why, there are cockroaches in this world who stand taller than you!”
Manolis got down on one knee beside Harry’s chair, reached for his gun. “Give it to me,” he said, “and tell me what you want to know. And believe me, I will make him tell you!”
“I go now—” Janos said, “—but I go knowing that you will come to me.” He opened his mouth and laughed, and wriggled his tongue as frantically and obscenely as a madman. “I know it as surely as I know that tonight—ah tonight.—sweet Sandra will writhe in my bed, lathered with the froth of our fornication!”
He laughed, a great shout of a laugh, and fell limp in his chair. His eyes closed, his head leaned to one side and his jaw fell open. Foam dribbled from one corner of his mouth, and his left arm and hand vibrated a little where they hung down the side of the chair.
Harry, Darcy and Manolis glanced at each other, and at last Harry half-released the Beretta into Manolis’s hands—at which Jordan’s eyes sprang open! He laughed again and leaped alert, and snatched the gun from between them. And: “Ah, hah-hah!” he screamed. “Children, mere children.”
And putting the gun to his right ear, he pulled the trigger.
Harry had drawn back, forcing his chair backwards away from the action, but Darcy and Manolis were sprayed with blood and brains as the left side of Jordan’s head flew apart. Yelping their horror, they started upright and back.
Framed in the open doorway, a trio of Sisters of Mercy held their hands to their mouths and gasped. They had seen it all. Or the end of it, anyway. “Oh, my G-G-God!” Darcy staggered from the room, leaving Harry and Manolis, mouths agape, staring at Jordan’s bloody corpse …