“About the robbery, yes. I know.” Sanford tapped his lips with an index finger. “I would have expected a woman like you to have left town as quickly as possible, afterwards.”
“I was… curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
“So Americans like to say.”
“Who are you working for?”
“An interested party.”
“I would dearly like to meet them.”
Alessandra almost smiled at the thought. “I am sure you would.” Her smile faded, as she remembered why she was here. “Ferdinand Ashley.”
It was Sanford’s turn to frown. “What about him?”
“He is a member of your order.”
He nodded, with obvious reluctance. “Ferdinand used to be a member of the Lodge. Still is, really. He never officially left, but… you know how it is.”
“Bad blood?”
“In a sense. And like most academics, he can hold a grudge. One of the reasons he went to work for that twit, Orne, I expect.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ve been waiting for you to come and ask about him for some time, you know.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No, but I would pay dearly to find out.” She tried to read his expression, but it was opaque. He seemed to have no such difficulty reading hers, however. “You think he’s involved. More, you think I’m involved.”
Alessandra tensed. The air in the room suddenly felt different – unpleasant. Like a storm brewing somewhere above. Sanford’s gaze seemed as deep and dark as a well. “A not unsurprising assumption, I suppose. We have many enemies, and they would dearly love to see us embarrassed. Are you one of them, countess?”
Her mouth was dry as she said, “That remains to be seen. Did you kill them?”
Sanford blinked. The pressure in the air abruptly faded. “Kill who?”
In that moment of surprise, Alessandra realized that he didn’t know. She stood. “Thank you for your time, Mr Sanford. I see I was mistaken coming here.”
“Mistaken about what?” Sanford rose. He wasn’t used to being the one in the dark. He leaned towards her – and jolted, as if something had shocked him. The expression on his face became… unpleasant. A mixture of confusion and perhaps even fear. “Look at me.”
“What?”
“Look at me, I said,” he snapped. His mask of geniality had slipped. She did, and he drew back after a few moments.
“Tell me, how have you been sleeping?”
She frowned, wondering what had prompted such a question. “I do not see how that is any of your business.”
Sanford reached for her, as if he wanted to shake the answer loose. But before he could lay his hands on her, the mastiffs outside began to bark furiously.
Alessandra was out the door a moment later.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Connections
Whitlock stumbled back as the door opened and someone dressed like a longshoreman raced past, heading down the walk. He heard a shout from inside, and saw the black shapes of a pair of big dogs barreling towards whoever they were. “Hey,” he shouted, trying to warn them. He reached for his weapon, and Muldoon, at the bottom of the steps, did so as well.
A woman stepped out onto the porch and whistled sharply. The dogs immediately veered off and retreated out of sight. The woman looked at Whitlock. “Were you planning to shoot them?”
“Only if necessary.”
“It would have gone badly for you, if you had done so.”
“That a threat, lady?”
Muldoon pushed past him, before she could reply. “Is Mr Sanford in?”
“He is indeed,” Sanford said, from the doorway. His eyes were on the departing figure. Something in his expression reminded Whitlock of a hunter sighting his quarry. Whitlock glanced back. There was something familiar about the figure, though he hadn’t gotten a good look at them. He pushed the thought aside.
“We interrupt something?” he asked.
“Not at all,” Sanford said. He turned to the woman. “I have the matter in hand, Miss Van Shaw. Thank you.” She nodded and went back inside, with a parting glare at Whitlock. Sanford noticed and smiled. “She’s particular about her pets – raised them from pups herself. Trained them as well. Lethal, if you’re on the wrong end.”
“I’m sure,” Muldoon said. “You don’t seem surprised to see us.”
“Chief Nichols kindly phoned ahead.” Sanford’s smile could have cut ice. Whitlock took against him immediately. Something about his eyes – the way the smile didn’t reach them. Sanford was a liar, and a practiced one. “You wanted to ask me if I had anything to do with the robbery earlier this week. I’m surprised you’re only just now getting to me.”
“I bet,” Whitlock said. Sanford looked at him.
“Ah, the insurance man. Come to check my deductibles?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Whitlock leaned in. “You know a guy named Jodorowsky? Or Gomes?”
“Should I?”
Whitlock opened his mouth, but Muldoon silenced him with a gesture. “We were wondering if you’d spoken to Professor Ferdinand Ashley lately.”
“Ah. There we go. No, I haven’t. Professor Ashley is no longer in this lodge – or any other. He was… excommunicated, you might say.”
“Any particular reason why?” Muldoon asked.
Sanford smiled. “That would be a private matter, I’m afraid. Why not ask him?”
Whitlock grunted. “He’s missing, which I bet you already know.”
“I’d heard something of the sort. A shame – Ferdinand was a rare mind.”
“Was?” Muldoon said.
“Is,” Sanford corrected. Whitlock frowned. He was playing with them. Amusing himself. He glanced at Muldoon, whose face was stiff and blank. “I don’t know where he is, if that’s what you’re wondering. Nor can I say with any certainty that he’s the sort of man to involve himself in such… shenanigans.” He paused. “Though, I might not put it past him.”
“Sounds like you’re hedging your bets to me,” Whitlock said.
“That’s what a smart player does, Mr Whitlock.” Sanford’s smile became colder – sharper. “Especially in the sorts of games men like us play…”
“Us?”
“Myself… and whoever pointed you in my direction.” Sanford sat casually on the porch rail and looked out over French Hill. “Think of Arkham as a gameboard, gentlemen. One player moves a piece, another player responds. Your presence is a move in a game most people never even notice is being played.” He smiled at them, a more genial expression this time. “A game I intend to win, come what may.”
“A game?” Whitlock growled. “Is that what you call four people dead?”
“Collateral damage,” Sanford said. “Surely, as a former soldier, you must be familiar with that term?”
“How did you know…?”
“Your experiences are stamped on your soul, Mr Whitlock. Whether you know it or not.” Sanford looked at Muldoon. “That goes for both of you.” He turned back to Whitlock. “For what it’s worth, I hope you find your mummy. It was an unfortunate occurrence. Looks bad for the town. Better for everyone if the thieves are brought to justice as soon as possible.”
He stood and extended his hand towards the street. “Now, I’m afraid I have another appointment to get to. If you gentlemen wouldn’t mind…”
“Thank you for your time, Mr Sanford,” Muldoon said, stiffly. Hat in hand, he led Whitlock down the lane. The dogs watched them from the grass, growling softly as they passed. Whitlock kept his hand near his pistol, just in case.
When they were safely out on the street, he said, “That’s it? That’s all we’re going to ask him?” He looked back at the house. Sanford was nowhere to be seen.
“That’s all he’s going to tell us,” Muldoon said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Trust me, I know. This town…” He put his hat back on. “We got permission to question him because he wanted to know what w
e know. Now he does.”
“He played us, you mean.”
“You heard him. There’s something going on that we’re not privy to.”
Whitlock looked away. “Reminds me of something I heard during the war. Only officers get to see the whole map. Grunts just get to see what’s past the lip of the trench.” He sighed. “Fine. So what does that mean for us?”
Muldoon shook his head. “Nothing good. Let’s go back to the station.”
“That’s it, then?” Whitlock demanded.
“For now.”
Whitlock turned. The dogs sat at the gate, watching them intently. One of them growled, and Whitlock felt an unexplainable chill cut through him. There was something wrong with the animals, but he couldn’t say what. He just knew he didn’t want to be anywhere near them without a gun in his hand.
“Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Well?” Pepper asked, as Alessandra got into the cab.
For a moment, she could not formulate an answer. Her hands were shaking and she felt as if she had been underwater. She looked out the window at the house up the street, and could feel it watching her. “We should go.”
Pepper frowned. “Yeah, maybe so.” She put the cab into motion. “Back to the hotel or…?”
“No.” Alessandra shook her head. “No. The university.”
“Again?”
“Yes, I promised Walters I would speak to him again. Now seems as good a time as any.” She closed her eyes. Her head ached, and she felt sick. As if she had eaten too much, and yet somehow not enough. The shadows on the street bunched and coiled about the cab as they drove, and with every constriction she felt an answering one in her chest.
“Are you OK?” Pepper asked, glancing back. “Only you look like someone walked over your grave. What did he say to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he do it?”
“No.”
“So what now?”
“Now I talk to Walters. Whatever he has to tell me might point me in the right direction. Or at least in a direction.” She leaned against the window, watching the sky. It looked strange. The clouds were… jagged. Coarse. More like stone.
The cab jolted. Bumped as if it were going over rough ground. She closed her eyes. Everything she’d learned of late rattled in her head, and she could feel the edge of the solution. It was just out of reach, tantalizingly close… but far at the same time.
That Ashley had instigated the robbery was certain. But why? And at whose behest? Freeborn had claimed that Ashley had a patron, someone setting him on his course. If that patron was not Sanford – then who was it?
Then, of course, there were the murders. Who had committed them and why? She thought of Visser. Someone had been following him – not Chauncey Swann, she thought. Visser would have recognized him.
There was something there – like two frayed strands, yearning to be knotted together. The cab jolted again, and she heard metal buckle. She opened her eyes.
Darkness. All around her. It was as if the cab was driving through a tunnel. Flickers of light gleamed like distant stars, and she could hear the pounding of the wheels on stone. It sounded like drums.
“Pepper,” she said.
“Tsathoggua en y’n an ya phtaggn N’kai,” Pepper croaked. She turned, and it was not her. It was something else, like a bat and a frog or maybe just the shadow of the thing, hunched in the driver’s seat. Veins of gold stretched across black jaws and for a moment, it was Zamacona’s face, chipped from onyx.
“N’kai,” the Pepper-thing hissed, in a voice like falling leaves. “N’kai.”
Alessandra stared, unable to move, unable to speak. She reached for her gun, and felt something wet. Like oil. She forced herself to look down. Blackness spilled into her lap from her split belly. Coils of pinkish intestine and flaps of bloody skin were forced aside by the undulating darkness as it spilled onto the floor, filling the cab. There was no pain. Only a sort of numbness that was like relief, long yearned for.
There was a knife in her hand – how had it gotten there? She dropped it from trembling fingers and looked up. The Pepper-thing crawled over the seat towards her, with too many limbs, moving too fast and too slow, all at once.
“N’kai,” it gurgled again. “N’kai.” Each utterance of the word seemed to her a benediction of sorts – a prayer and a demand.
“N’kai,” she said, her voice a rasp. The word flowered in her mind, full of context she did not comprehend. It filled her and cored her out like an apple, leaving only the fruits of her being. It explored them lovingly, pulling her apart so as to examine her from all angles.
It was only a little thing, she realized. A fragment of something greater by far. An existence beyond her own, beyond anything she knew. But there, in that instant, she was a part of that greater whole and could see the world as it saw it. A world of colds and warms, of lights and darks. Of the greatest darkness, a sea of stone stretching beneath the skin of the world, and containing all the secrets of reality.
The thief in her longed to know more, to plunder the dark. But what gripped her refused to release her into the sea. Instead, it tightened its hold, and with many mouths, it whispered unintelligible words into her ears. She tried to listen, but she was already crumbling in its grip. It caught what was left of her head in its hands, and seemed to swell, until she was dangling from its grip like a child’s toy. The cab was gone, the world was gone. There was only darkness.
Only N’kai.
And then, almost tenderly, it swallowed her whole.
She sat up with a strangled gasp, and found Pepper – the real Pepper, not the half-thing of her dream – staring at her with obvious concern. “You are not OK,” Pepper said, her voice cracking slightly. “You look like you’ve been on a three-week dry drunk. What’s going on?”
“Bad dreams,” Alessandra said, wiping her eyes. Her fingertips came away black. She blinked, and saw that no, she’d been mistaken. “Are we here?” She looked out the window, trying to slow her heartrate. It felt as if it might burst from her chest at any moment. She saw the familiar iron fencing of the campus.
“Yeah, but you’ve been asleep back there for twenty minutes.” Pepper continued to stare. “Maybe I should take you back to the hotel, huh?”
“No. Not yet.” She paused, reading something on Pepper’s face. “What is it?”
“I got a bad feeling about tonight. Maybe we shouldn’t go.”
“You do not have to.”
“You don’t either.”
Alessandra smiled sadly and got out of the cab. “I fear that choice may have been taken out of my hands. Stay with the cab. I will be back shortly.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
K’n-Yan
Professor Walters was waiting for her in the library when she arrived. The old man was pacing the confines of his room impatiently, rubbing his signet ring and muttering to himself. Books rose from his desk like the parapets of a castle, many of them old and crumbling. He looked up as she knocked on the door. “There you are. Finally!”
“My apologies for being late. I was… unavoidably detained.” Her dream, if that was what it had been, was already fading from her conscious mind. The details slipped through her fingers like sand, and she couldn’t help but feel grateful for that fact.
Walters cleared aside the books so that they could face one another over the desk. “I asked around about you yesterday, after our talk. You have quite the reputation, countess. Indeed, a number of my European colleagues have nothing but good things to say about you. Others, however…”
Alessandra had expected as much. Walters struck her as a conscientious man. She sat and pulled out her cigarettes. “May I smoke?”
“Only if you share,” Walters said. She extended the pack. He took one and she lit it for him. He sat back. “Is it true, what they say?”
“Depends on what they say, really.”
“Are you a thief?”
After
a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “A very good one, yes.” It didn’t seem strange to her that Walters knew. Presumably he had similar sources to Orne and Sanford. There was more to the folk of Arkham than met the eye. They were not so bucolic as she had assumed.
“I assume, since we are having this conversation, that you were not behind the theft of the mummy.” He exhaled, and his face was momentarily masked by smoke.
“Your assumption is correct.”
“Then why do you care?”
“I want to steal it back, obviously.”
“And return it?” He gestured. “No, forget I asked. A silly question. A better one is – why should I help you find it?”
Alessandra lit her own cigarette before replying. She leaned back, and thought of her dreams. Of Zamacona and the mummy. But mostly of the voice in her dreams. The compulsion, rising out of the dark, driving her on. Had it been that way since she’d arrived? Had she wandered, unknowing, into a spider’s web? Regardless, she was caught now. And there was only one way to go. “I think… I must. I think I am caught fast in this situation, and the only way out is to do what I came here to do.”
“Might I ask why you came here at all?”
“Someone paid me handsomely to steal that mummy.”
“Who?”
She hesitated. “It is probably for the best that I don’t tell you.”
Walters frowned. “That bad, eh?”
“I believe so, yes.”
Walters pushed himself to his feet and stumped along the shelves. “And when you find the mummy, do you still intend to give it to them?”
Alessandra paused before answering. “I don’t know.”
Walters chuckled. “You’re honest, at least.” He glanced at her. “Tell me – why the hesitation? A change of heart?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Despite her words, the truth was she had begun to consider a change of career, at least. She had money enough, after this job, to last for a while. If she were careful, it might stretch for a few years. Perhaps she could write her memoirs. If she survived. She blew a plume of smoke into the air, trying to decide if she should confide in the old man. Something about the way he looked at her, about the way he spoke on these matters, told her that she could do worse. “I’ve been having dreams.”
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