Morpheus Road 03 - The Blood

by D. J. MacHale

  "You visiting somebody special?" the cabdriver asked.

  Marsh didn't answer.

  The cabbie added, "I'm not sure when they close up. You might not have much time."

  "I won't need much time," was Marsh's emotionless answer.

  The cabbie stopped trying to make conversation. It was obvious to him that the kid in the back was upset. He figured it was better to let him deal with it on his own.

  It was getting late in the afternoon but still hours before dark. That was one consolation for Marsh. He didn't like being alone in the dark . . . especially not where he was going.

  The cab rolled to a stop, and the cabbie turned back to him. "I'll wait for you right here."

  "Don't," Marsh said quickly as he dug for his wallet.

  "You're in the middle of nowhere!"

  Marsh threw a twenty-dollar bill at the cabbie. "Thanks. Good-bye."

  "Whatever," the driver said with a shrug.

  Marsh climbed out of the cab awkwardly. It was tough to move with a crowbar hidden along his leg inside his pants. He slammed the door shut and stood watching as the yellow car drove away along the country lane. The road was empty. There was never much traffic in this part of town. Once the cab disappeared and the whine of its engine died away, the only sound Marsh heard came from the early birds who had already begun to hunt for their evening meal. It was a peaceful, lazy late summer afternoon.

  Marsh pulled the heavy crowbar out of his pants leg, then turned to see that the front gate was still open. He was relieved to know that he wouldn't have to break in. He walked up to the tall wrought-iron fence and stopped, flashing back to the last time he had been there. It wasn't a good memory, and he quickly shook it off. He knew that if he dwelled on the past, especially a past that was so disturbing, there would be no way he would be able to go through with what he had come to do. He had to clear his mind and keep moving. With a quick breath he stepped forward and walked through the open gate of Stony Brook Cemetery.

  He knew exactly where to go, though it had been a few years since he had been to that particular area. He had seen the place many times . . . in his mind. It was burned into his memory, as disturbing images usually are. He walked slowly along the paved road that wound between the sea of headstones and statues. It was an old cemetery, with graves dating back to the seventeenth century. The one small consolation was that he wasn't going to visit the older, Gothic section. The ancient mausoleums, tombstones, and statues in that area were the fodder for nightmares. Marsh had more than enough nightmare material to deal with already.

  Because it was late in the day, there were no other people visiting graves. The only activity was a sole worker riding a backhoe, filling in a grave that was situated about fifty yards away from where Marsh was walking. Marsh didn't stop to watch. The idea of earth being dumped onto a coffin was a chilling one. It made him think of the term that Coop said his grandfather used for dying: "The dirt nap." It was a cavalier phrase that cheapened death. It didn't seem as clever or funny when you considered the literal meaning.

  He wondered if it was Ennis's grave, since the funeral had been only a few hours before. The thought made him pick up the pace. He didn't want his imagination to play with that image. Besides, he didn't want the worker to know he was there.

  He walked for another five minutes and caught the first glimpse of his destination peeking through a grove of cypress trees. It was a mausoleum, but not one of the crusty old ones that could be found in the ancient section of the cemetery. This was a modern structure made of marble and stone, with square lines and not a single forlorn statue in sight. Marsh had been inside exactly once and promised himself that he would never go back.

  He was about to break that promise.

  The building could have passed for a small modern church. Pots of colorful, well-tended flowers were to either side of the entrance, and the grass that surrounded it looked to have been trimmed that very day. The light gray marble walls were spotless. The glass doors were sparkling clear. It was a clean, inviting structure . . . for the dead.

  Four marble steps led up to a short porch that had two tall, white columns guarding the entryway. Marsh fought the memories of his last visit as he climbed the steps and pulled on the gleaming brass handle. The door was locked.

  It made him think of a joke from when he was a young kid.

  "Why do cemeteries have fences?"

  "Because people are dying to get in."

  He never thought it was very funny, but all the same, in that moment, he was dying to get in. He dug into his jeans and pulled out a ring with two shiny brass keys. They had been gathering dust in the back of his father's desk drawer at home. He never forgot about them, but had never expected to use them either. He wasn't even 100 percent sure they would work. He picked one and slipped it into the lock. He held his breath and twisted.

  The lock turned effortlessly. Marsh closed his eyes and pulled the door open. He was instantly hit by an overwhelming smell. A sweet smell. Flowers. People always commented on how wonderful flowers smelled. Marsh didn't agree. The fragrant aroma always brought back terrible memories for him, most of them having to do with funerals.

  He entered quickly and closed the door. There were pull-down shades on each of the doors to block out direct light. He didn't want anyone to catch sight of him inside so he lowered both of the blinds. Not only was he hidden from curious eyes, but by lowering the blinds, the outside world ceased to exist. It was as if he had entered another world.

  He listened. The mausoleum was quiet. He was alone. He had done it.

  The easy part.

  The ceiling was glass, which allowed in enough late-day light to see by. There was no need to turn on any lamps that might be noticed from outside. Directly inside the front entrance was the meditation chapel. There was a long marble bench on either side. On the wall behind each was a mosaic artwork that depicted a different tranquil countryside. Large vases filled with fresh flowers stood in each corner. It looked like a pleasant enough place to sit and think, if you wanted to sit and think about hanging out in a building full of dead people.

  He walked to the far end of the chapel, where there were wide rooms off to either side. The walls of each were covered with rows of symmetrical marble-faced squares roughly two feet wide. These were the niches were people interred the cremated remains of their loved ones. Many had the names of the tenants etched into the marble and painted a rich golden color. Most of them had small bronze vases attached. Some held fresh flowers, others had the remains of petals that had wilted long ago. Most were empty. The majority of the niches at eye level had names. Many of the squares that were lower or much higher were blank. There was plenty of room for those who were dying to get in.

  Though he had only stolen quick glimpses of the mausoleum the one time he was there, he remembered it all. He also remembered where he had to go. Halfway along the wall of the room to the right was another door. He turned and walked to it, passing the niches that held the urns of ashes that were once people. He arrived at the solid brass door and didn't bother checking to see if it was locked. He went right for the ring with the two keys and chose the second key. This lock turned as easily as the first, and with a loud click that echoed through the empty chamber, the door was unlocked.

  The door was wider than normal in order to accommodate deliveries. He pulled it open to find that it was also heavy. Like a vault. Swinging it wide, he saw the set of stairs that led below. It was dark down there. He was scared. It was the fear that anybody would have if they were alone in a dark mausoleum, surrounded by the dead. He felt foolish for it. There was plenty for him to be afraid of, but not in the traditional sense. He was about to step into territory that would be unfathomable to the average person. Ghosts? They were the least of his worries. What waited below was far more horrible than any spirit. He steeled himself, stepped inside, and pulled the door shut behind him. He grasped the crowbar tighter and began his descent.

  No sunlight penetrate
d the chamber. He needed to turn on a light. He stopped to let his eyes adjust, and after a few seconds he was able to make out faint, gray detail. To his relief, a row of light switches was on the wall to his right. He reached out and flipped the first in line. This triggered to life a row of lights that were recessed near the ceiling. It was a soft, unobtrusive light that created just enough illumination to navigate by. Slowly, he descended into the depths and stopped when he arrived at the bottom stair.

  He had reached the final leg of his journey and turned to gaze into the subterranean crypt.

  The room covered twice as much area as the structure above because most of the space had been created by burrowing underground. The ceiling was low, but the niches built into these walls were much larger than the ones on the ground floor. The receptacles up top were designed to hold a small urn of ashes. These crypts were built to hold full-size coffins. The facades that covered each of the crypts was made from the same material as above. White marble. But rather than being two-feet square, the symmetrical sections built into these walls were roughly seven feet long and two feet high . . . the standard size to hold a coffin that was slipped in sideways. As above, there were bronze vases that held flowers. Marsh was surprised to see that they all looked as fresh as if they had been delivered that day. It didn't take long to understand why. They were plastic. As above, many of the crypts were inscribed with names. Most had dates. Some even had prayers.

  His destination was the far end of the room.

  He took a step and started to shake. His stomach twisted, and he had all he could do to keep from getting sick. He thought he had gotten over that reaction to stress. It was just another hurdle he would have to overcome.

  "Ralph," came a soft voice.

  Marsh didn't react. He thought it was his mind playing tricks. It wouldn't have been the first time. He stopped walking, listened, then continued on.

  "What are you doing?" came the voice again.

  It was no inner dialogue. Marsh spun quickly to see Cooper standing on the stairs behind him. In just a few seconds his emotions ran from surprise, to fear, to anger.

  "How did you find me?" Marsh asked.

  Coop shrugged. "I can always find you . . . or did you forget that?"

  He had.

  "Besides, you left your cell phone at your house, and Sydney checked it. You called for a cab. The dispatcher said they brought you here. So Sydney knows too."

  "Where is she?"

  "I told her to stay put, which means she's probably on the way. I can move a lot quicker than she can."

  There was an awkward silence.

  "What's with the crowbar?" Coop asked.

  "You can't stop me," Marsh said, his voice quivering.

  "I don't even know what you're doing."

  Marsh held up the tool to examine it. "I'm going to save my mother," he said.

  With that he turned and strode for the far end of the burial chamber.

  Coop ran ahead of him.

  "Talk to me, Ralph," he said. "What's going on?"

  "I'm a smart guy," Marsh said. "It took a while but I finally put it together."

  "Okay, I'm not and I didn't. Enlighten me."

  "My mother told you the story about what happened under that temple in Greece with her and Ennis. They found the poleax in Damon's tomb, along with the six crucibles."

  "Yeah, it was all about protecting the Rift."

  "Exactly. The Rift. That's how she died. She wasn't crushed in an earthquake. She fell into the Rift. And it wasn't really a tomb, was it?"

  "No, I guess not. At least not Damon's tomb. He'd gone through the Rift too. Centuries before."

  Marsh had reached the far wall of crypts. He stopped and looked to his friend. His eyes were wild and his heart was thumping frantically.

  "I can't let her spirit die, Coop."

  "I'm doing all I can."

  "I know. But I haven't been. At least until now."

  "And what is it you're doing?"

  Marsh looked down at the marble slab that covered a crypt at waist level. Etched in the white marble were the words:

  THERESA SEAVER. BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER. BFF.

  Coop gazed at the crypt, desperately trying to understand.

  "Ennis was there," Marsh said. "In Greece. After Mom died, he handled all the details. All the paperwork. He dealt with the governments and the shipping companies and cut through all the red tape to bring her body home. Dad and I never questioned a thing. We were too messed up. But now I understand. I can't believe it took me so long."

  "Understand what?" Coop asked, frustrated.

  "You know what happened. She told you the whole thing. She didn't die in the rubble."

  "But she did die! She's in the Black, Marsh!"

  "I know. But it wasn't the earthquake that killed her. She went through the Rift."

  "So?"

  "So that means there was no body to bring home."

  The realization hit Cooper like a freight train rumbling along the Morpheus Road.

  "Jeez, you're right," he said with a gasp.

  Marsh looked him dead in the eye and said, "Lignum vitae. Damon was right all along. I know where the poleax is."

  10

  "Lignum what?" Coop asked, reeling, trying to understand all the implications. "What does that mean?"

  "Lignum vitae. The wood of life. That's what Ennis called it. He said it represented strength and asked if it was okay."

  "You're losing me, man."

  "I stood right there," Marsh said, pointing to a spot not far from the crypt. "I saw Ennis put a twisted sculpture of branches on top of the coffin before they slid it into the tomb. It was like a knot made out of wooden limbs. The perfect size to hide something."

  Cooper looked to Ree's crypt, trying to calculate the facts that Marsh was throwing out.

  "Ralph, you're dreaming," he finally said. "The poleax is a weapon. It's too big to hide in a twisted branch of wood."

  "I'm sure it is," Marsh said calmly. "But it was the perfect size to hide a small golden ball."

  Coop's eyes went wide. Everything that Marsh had been babbling about had suddenly snapped into perfect focus. "Oh jeez," he said with a gasp.

  Marsh nodded. "This is what it's been about from the start, Coop. Damon knew I would be the one to figure it out. It's why he came after you to come after me. The fifth crucible is protecting the poleax . . . in my mother's grave."

  Marsh was breathing hard, his eyes glazed. His mind had gone to another place in order to process the horror of what he was about to do.

  "So you want to break into the crypt and get it?" Coop asked, numb.

  "I want to save my mother," Marsh answered. He clutched the crowbar and took a step back to line himself up.

  "Ralph, no!" Coop yelled. "You can't. You just can't."

  "I can. I have to," Marsh replied.

  "Listen to me. Your mom is still okay. Damon needs her to try to control you, and it's working. You're doing exactly what he wants."

  "He threatened to kill her spirit," Marsh said.

  "And what would stop him from doing it anyway, even after he got the poleax? He is not an honorable guy."

  "You could be right, but I'm not taking the chance."

  "So what are you going to do?" Coop challenged. "Just hand him the poleax and hope he releases your mother? Trust me, that won't happen."

  "I do trust you, Coop. That's why I'm giving the poleax to you."

  "What!" Coop exclaimed, once again thrown by Marsh's thinking.

  "This is your plan, remember? You wanted the Guardians to get the poleax and use it against Damon. From everything I've seen, Damon is too powerful to be brought down like a normal spirit."

  Coop backed off. "No . . . no . . . that's just . . . nuts."

  "It isn't," Marsh said with authority. "Use the poleax, Coop. Use it on Damon."

  Coop was reeling. "I . . . I don't know. That's like . . . like . . . playing with fire."

  "Exactly. Your kind of fi
ght."

  Marsh focused on the crypt. Coop saw that he was getting ready to act, and jumped in front of him.

  "No!" he shouted. "I can't believe I'm the voice of reason here but you're wrong. I was wrong. If the poleax is in there with the crucible, then Damon can't get it."

  "But for how long?" Marsh cried. "Three crucibles are broken, and Damon's abilities have grown each time. He's not going to stop until he gets what he wants, so why should I?"

  "I know, Ralph. I hear you. But this is way bigger than saving your mother. It's bigger than you and me and any of the spirits who've been fighting him. If Damon gets that thing, it'll be Armageddon."

  "You may be right," Marsh said, still remarkably calm. "But sooner or later he's going to find this. Maybe it'll be a hundred years from now after he tortures some other poor sucker into getting it, but it will happen. The only difference will be that my mother will no longer exist."

  "What if you're wrong?" Coop shouted, grasping at straws. "What if it isn't there? What if this is really your mother's tomb and her body's been in there for three years? Is that something you want to see? And live with?"

  Marsh blinked, imagining the possibility. Coop had finally gotten through to him. He took a few steps back from the crypt and read the inscription. Tears grew in his eyes.

  "I don't think I'm wrong," Marsh said softly. "But if I am, the worst thing that will happen is that I'll lose whatever is left of my mind. But if I'm right, we could hold the power to stop Damon."

  Coop said, "Or bring on Judgment Day."

  Marsh grasped the crowbar tighter.

  "Are you going to move?"

  Coop shook his head. "I can't stop you, but I'm not getting out of the way."

  Marsh started breathing hard. The sound of his labored breaths filled the subterranean room. His eyes were focused on the stretch of marble that protected either the poleax . . . or his mother's remains.

  "Don't do it, Ralph," Coop begged softly. "I promise I'll find her."

  Marsh raised the crowbar, let out an anguished bellow, and charged for the crypt. True to his word, Cooper didn't budge. When Marsh swung the bar, it traveled right through his friend before smashing into the crypt's facade.