Robertson didn’t know.
Or rather, he corrected himself, he didn’t know yet. But in the ten years he’d been hunting the Reaper, he’d been in this position many times, and something always pointed him in the right direction. This time it would happen as well. He just had to be patient.
17
HUNT
Dismayed at how poorly my conversation with Denise and Dmitri had gone, I kept to myself for most of the day, figuring that a little space would help heal the rift that had developed between us. My nerves were still a wreck, however, so I decided to do the tourist thing to make me forget about it.
I had one of Gallagher’s people call a cab for me and asked to be taken into the city. With the lake on one side and the river on the other, New Orleans had always been flavored with the smell of dirty water and rotting vegetation, but since Katrina a stench pervaded everything, soaked deep into the wood and stone, a constant reminder of how close the city had come to drowning. The air was thick with moisture even now, in midwinter, and I wondered how anyone could live in this place year-round and not constantly feel the need to wash the slick film it left behind from their skin.
I did the usual tourist routine—caught a streetcar ride through the Garden District, had a po’boy for lunch in Jackson Square, sat for an hour or two in Preservation Hall listening to some excellent jazz.
By the time the sun went down, I was ready for the French Quarter and Bourbon Street.
Music filled the air: loud, raucous music that spoke to me of life and liberty, of want and excess, and called to me at some deeper, primal level, making me want to lose myself in its rhythms. Horns rang out, in counterpoint to the beat of the drums, and the lonesome wail of a sax rose above them both, drifting over it all from somewhere a few blocks away.
The streets were narrow, the buildings close together, with secret courtyards and hidden gardens scattered throughout the maze so I was never quite sure what I was going to find when I turned a corner. Light spilled from open doorways, punctuated by the gleam and glow of neon signs, but by sticking to the shadows and keeping my sunglasses on, I was able to make my way around pretty well. If I occasionally stumbled when I stepped into a pool of light, well, my actions didn’t differ all that much from the antics of many of the street’s other travelers and no one paid much attention to me anyway.
I wandered the streets and wherever I went, the dead went with me.
There was no need for me to call them; they came of their own accord, following in my wake like the children who followed the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Just a handful, at first, and then more as we moved through the night, until I had more than a dozen ghosts following me wherever I went.
They didn’t try to communicate in any way, they never do, but just trailed along behind me, watching everything I did with an intensity that bordered on obsession. I was used to it and barely noticed, but I could tell their presence was having an effect on those around me. My fellow partygoers gave me far more space than anyone else, as if I were surrounded by a force field that extended out from my body for several feet, and the crowd inevitably started to thin out in any establishment that I stayed in for very long.
Still, I did what I could to enjoy the music and have a good time.
For months I’d been worried about showing my face, convinced that the moment I did someone would recognize me and turn me in to the authorities. I’d gone to ground in a big way, determined not to get caught until I figured out some way of clearing my name. But now, in the wake of the argument with Denise and the general sense of foreboding that had been plaguing me ever since I’d stepped foot in the city, somehow that didn’t seem to matter as much. If I was recognized, so be it, I decided. There was more than a hint of fatalism to my decision.
The changes I’d made to my appearance would help a little, as did the sunglasses I used to hide my bone white eyes and the long-sleeved jersey that covered my tattoos, but I was still taking a chance by being out in public.
I tried to keep to the outdoor venues, the kind that occupied the courtyards between the buildings, where most of the lighting was focused on the stage or comprised of something like tiki torches, which weren’t as invasive to the senses. It didn’t take me long to recognize the undercurrent of anxiety, desperation even, that ran through the crowds. Everywhere I went the music seemed a little louder, the booze a little heavier, the partygoers a little too intent on tuning it all out. Once in a while I saw someone wearing a paper mask, as if afraid of catching the “mysterious disease” the news kept yammering about, but for the most part it was business as usual.
Later, I found myself wandering a bit farther afield than the tourists usually did. The streets were narrower, the shadows a bit deeper, and the few tourists hurried through as if they didn’t belong. The sound of a saxophone drew me in and I followed it until I found its source. An old black man with hair the color of wet snow sat upon a short stool, his horn to his lips. I even recognized the song, “Lover Man,” by the great Charlie Parker. It was the kind of tune that started out slow and languid, a lazy ride on a peaceful river, and then sped up into a rousing melody that took real skill to play.
The old man was good, better than good, really, and it was a pleasure to sit on the curb and listen to him play. He started into another number right after finishing “Lover Man,” one I didn’t recognize, but that was fine too. His music picked and pulled at me, the way good music will, and I soon found myself with my harmonica in my hand, waiting for the right moment to join in, then riffing off his melody into a substrain all my own that rose and fell alongside his without missing a beat.
The dead began to gather around us in greater numbers, called by the music we were making. I shot a glance at the old man, wondering if he knew they were there, but if he did he paid them no mind and just continued in search of that elusive melody, that perfect refrain.
We played that way for a while, with only the dead for company, and when we were done we thanked each other for the privilege of playing together. Smiling, feeling better than I had in a long time, I pulled a twenty out of my wallet, dropped it into the saxophone case at his feet, and turned to go.
To my surprise, a familiar form stood waiting at the end of the street.
He was a giant of a man, even in death, towering over everything at just a hair above seven feet. His fists were like sledgehammers, his legs as thick as oaks, and he had the disposition of a junkyard bulldog that had been kicked one too many times and now intended to take the leg off the next person who came too close.
His real name was Thomas Matthews, though I’d only discovered that a few months ago, and I’d never called him by that name.
To me, he was simply Scream.
I hadn’t seen him since that night in September when he’d helped me put down the shade of a sorcerer named Eldredge. The night Detective Stanton had died. The night the ghosts of two little girls, Matthews’s daughter and my own, were finally put to rest.
What was he doing here in New Orleans?
I waved my thanks to the sax player and set off down the street, toward the spot where Scream was waiting. Before I reached it, however, he turned and moved away from me, looking back as he did to be sure that I was following.
All of a sudden the anxiety that had been plaguing me for over a week came back with a vengeance, but I didn’t care. I trusted Scream; if there was something he wanted me to see, then I needed to see it.
We moved through the streets for several blocks, until I turned a corner and found myself facing a shallow cul-de-sac. A small wooden church stood across from me. The front doors were open and a faint light like that from candles drifted out from inside.
Scream had disappeared.
Now, I may not always be the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I was able to figure out that whatever it was that Scream wanted me to see had to be inside that church.
Still, I hesitated.
Me and the Almighty weren’t really on speaking terms, you see. I’d never been
all that religious in the first place and when my daughter disappeared and none of my prayers for her return were answered, I drifted further and further away. Then came the night when I sacrificed my sight and discovered that the world was full of creatures and things with a lot more power and majesty than I’d ever imagined. I saw demons and angels alike, the darkness and the light, and if they existed then I was pretty sure the Big Man Upstairs did as well.
The same Big Man Upstairs I’d cursed eleven ways from Sunday when I’d understood that He was not going to reach down and save my precious Elizabeth.
I hadn’t set foot inside a church since long before I knew the truth about the world. I wondered what I would see if I went in now.
When I go in, I silently admonished myself.
Steeling myself for what was to come, I walked across the cul-de-sac, followed the path to the front door of the church, and with my heart in my throat, stepped inside.
No lightning bolt.
That was good, I told myself. Means you’re too insignificant to command His attention.
Or He’s just waiting until you’re not looking for it, a sly voice in the back of my mind whispered.
Telling myself to shut up, I took a good look around.
The interior of the church was small; there weren’t any pews, but you couldn’t have fit more than a few dozen in the place. At the far end was an altar, a massive wooden crucifix hanging on the wall behind it. Candles lined the altar, throwing off soft light, but most of the rest of the place was shrouded in shadow, allowing me to take a good look around provided I didn’t face the altar directly.
Somewhere between fifteen and twenty cots filled the church, arranged in orderly rows, and each of them held a sick man, woman, or child. In the shadows on the far side of the room, a nun sat with one of the patients, her back to me, her voice a low murmur in the otherwise silent room.
I remembered what Denise had told me about the people in Gallagher’s clinic and a shiver ran up my spine. It was downright eerie to see so many people in one place and not have any background noise, not even the sound of anyone’s breathing.
What was going on here?
I knew this was what Scream had wanted me to see, so I moved forward, my footsteps on the bare wooden floor sounding uncharacteristically loud inside the small structure. I walked between the first rows of cots, glancing from side to side as I did. In each of them, I saw the same story.
The patients lay on their backs, pillows beneath their heads and their arms resting flat at their sides. The blankets on each cot were tucked in but not so tight as to hold them in place, yet none of them moved as I walked past. Every face was pointed directly upward. Each and every pair of eyes was open and staring, yet seeing nothing. It was as if they all had stopped to look at something above them for a moment and then had frozen there, unable to turn away.
It was creepy as hell.
What made it worse was the fact that none of these people even looked sick. Their breathing was even and steady, their color was good, and there weren’t any signs of fevers or lesions or sores that you might associate with a biological agent of some kind.
There had to be something here that I was missing. Scream wouldn’t have led me here otherwise. I could feel it nagging at the back of my brain, but whenever I tried to chase it down it just ran away from me.
Remembering the angry ghosts that had emerged from the clinic the other night, I made sure I had a clear path to the door in case I had to escape quickly and then cautiously threw that mental switch deep in my head, the one that activated my ghostsight.
A single glance was all it took.
I literally staggered under the shock of what I was seeing and was forced to grab onto the end of the nearest cot to keep my balance.
With my ghostsight, I see the world’s true face. Nothing can hide from me; nothing can defeat the purity of my gaze. I can see through magick and glamours to reveal the real creature underneath as easily as I can see the state of a person’s soul.
You’ve probably heard someone somewhere described as “wearing his heart on his sleeve”? Well that’s a pretty good description of how my ghostsight reveals a person’s soul; I can see it gleaming about a person, almost as if they are wearing a second skin. Some say that it is this form, this spirit, if you will, that remains behind when a person becomes a ghost, but I’m not so sure that’s true. What I do know is that every living person I’ve encountered since I sacrificed my natural sight had one, and from time to time I’ve used the appearance of those souls to make a judgment call about who they were or what they were saying. Our souls are the mystical representations of our true selves and reveal us as we actually are, rather than the face that we show the world. We can no more change them than we can the DNA that makes up our chromosomal structure.
Which was all well and good, except for one minor problem.
The souls of every single one of these people appeared to have been violently torn from their bodies. Only the thinnest tattered wisps remained, and even these were fading quickly as I stood there and watched.
Their bodies might still have been breathing, but I knew they couldn’t last much longer.
For all practical purposes, every one of those patients was already dead. Their bodies just didn’t know it yet.
18
HUNT
I’ll be the first to admit that the horror of it was nearly overwhelming. Facing off against angry ghosts and rampaging doppelgangers was one thing, but staring at a room full of people who will never wake up from their comas because their souls have been violently torn away was something else. What the hell could do something like that? I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and my head hurt from the sudden increase in blood pressure. I knew I had to get out of there or I was going to be in serious trouble.
As I dropped my ghostsight and turned to leave, motion by the front door caught my attention.
Turning, I caught sight of the nun I’d noted earlier. She was moving swiftly toward the front door, her robes swishing around her as she went. I shouted at her to stop.
“Sister! Please wait!”
She ignored me and by the time I managed to thread my way through the maze of unconscious patients and reach the door, the cul-de-sac outside was empty. Whoever she was, she was gone.
No matter. I had no doubt that I’d seen what Scream had brought me to see. Now was the time to figure out just how far this problem extended.
I wandered around for a bit until I made my way back into a more populous section of the Quarter. From there I caught a cab back to Gallagher’s.
Walking up to the building, I had to admit that it wasn’t much to look at. Certainly not the kind of place I’d expect the city’s Lord Marshal to be headquartered in. The clinic itself was a long one-story building that seemed to have more in common with a warehouse than a doctor’s office. The walls were cheap stucco over brick, with windows lining the area just under the roofline. Attached by way of a short connecting corridor was the two-story house Gallagher was using as both home and office. Like the clinic, it had seen better days, though at least it was missing the chest-high water stain that marked so many other structures we’d seen on our drive into the city.
Rather than heading for the house, I turned toward the clinic.
I had to see the patients.
A couple of Gallagher’s men were standing guard outside the room, but they’d seen me in their boss’s company and didn’t prevent me from entering. Once inside, I had a flash of déjà vu as I stared at the rows of cots bearing silent, unmoving forms. If it hadn’t been for the lack of the altar, I could have been back in that church at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Then and there, I knew what I would find.
These people were never waking up either.
Still, I had to be sure.
I walked over to the nearest patient, an elderly man with a small patch of hair combed across his skull, and stared down at him for a moment, hoping against hope tha
t I would be wrong, that what I had seen in the church was some kind of weird hallucination, an anomaly that couldn’t be explained but that was limited to just that particular group of patients.
Steeling myself, I triggered my ghostsight.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later I knocked loudly on Denise’s door. I kept knocking until I heard her get out of bed.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Hunt.”
I heard the lock click and then she was standing there, staring at me in confusion.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” she asked angrily.
I didn’t know and I didn’t care. We had more important things to discuss.
“I need you to come to the clinic right now,” I told her, “so get dressed and go downstairs. I’m going to wake up Gallagher and Dmitri and we’ll meet you there in five minutes.”
Even half-asleep she was a quick thinker. “What did you find out?” she asked.
“Five minutes,” I said and then turned away, headed for the other bedroom at the end of the hall. Two men stood guard outside Gallagher’s door, thanks to his official status as the Lord Marshal of New Orleans. I told them I needed to talk to the Marshal and waited while they woke him up. When he stepped out into the hall, I went through the same spiel. He pressed me for details, but I told him it was easier to show him than to explain and that I would answer any questions he had once we were all in the clinic.
Thankfully, he left it at that.
Dmitri heard the commotion and was already coming down the hallway to join us. I filled him in as quickly as I could.
Less than ten minutes later the four of us were gathered just inside the doors to the clinic.
“All right, Hunt,” Gallagher said. “We’re all here. Now tell us what you’ve found out.” He spoke in a whisper, as if afraid of waking any of the patients, despite the fact that none of them had moved or otherwise acknowledged anyone’s presence since their arrival.
I gestured out at the sleeping multitude.
King of the Dead (Jeremiah Hunt Chronicle) Page 10