Resurrection Blues

by James, Harper

***

  ‘DO I SOUND LIKE I’m in the bottom of a bucket?’ Guillory said when she called him back an hour later.

  She did actually. It sounded like she was in a big, empty space, her voice echoing, bouncing off hard walls.

  ‘That’s because I’m standing in the middle of Eckert’s great big empty aircraft hangar.’

  His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. He shifted his butt, trying to get comfortable in the seat, his shirt stuck to his back.

  ‘Any idea where they are,’ he said, just to be saying something, to stop his mind from jumping to the obvious conclusion. He didn’t believe in coincidence.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Don’t they have to file a flight plan?’

  A frustrated rush of air came down the line. It was as loud as the wind noise coming through the open window.

  ‘We talked to the guy in the ATC tower. He was very helpful in an unhelpful way. Apparently, they encourage pilots to file a flight plan, but it’s not mandatory. The purpose is to give search and rescue a lead if you go missing. It’s not permission to fly anywhere in particular. Seems if you have the legal right to operate the airplane, and you’re not in some category of airspace you’re not allowed to use like military airspace, you can fly it wherever you like and don’t have to ask permission.’

  ‘Jeez. Why not make it easy for the terrorists?’

  ‘You mean for people who want to fly to Baltimore to wait for the Lone Ranger to show up?’

  He stuck his head out the window, looking up at the sky. Maybe he thought the plane was tailing him, binoculars trained on his roof as they spoke. There was nothing there, just blue sky and fluffy white clouds.

  ‘I can’t see them.’

  He sensed a patient count to ten on the other end of the line, thought he heard the creak of plastic distorting in a strong hand. She still didn’t say anything when she got to ten.

  ‘You don’t know they’re going to Baltimore.’

  ‘I don’t know the sun’s gonna rise tomorrow morning but I’m working on the basis it will.’

  ‘How would they know that’s where I’m going?’ he said, not wanting to voice his fears that Spencer would have given up the plan.

  ‘How the hell do I know, Evan?’ The phone as good as jumped in his hand. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if you left a note pinned to your office door. Put it on your website if you had one. Off to Baltimore. Back soon—if I’m lucky. Did you tell Spencer or Eckert what you were planning?’

  His silence answered that one for him.

  ‘Which one of them?’ she said wearily, her anger spent.

  ‘Spencer.’

  Evan said Westminster Burying Grounds in Baltimore to himself. It took three seconds. With his femoral artery severed Spencer could have bled to death in as little as a minute. Enough to say it twenty times.

  ‘Do you know who’s on board Eckert’s plane?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, actually we do. The guy who owns the hangar next to Eckert’s saw them leave. He recognized Eckert. There were two other guys he’d never seen before. One was smaller—’

  ‘Tomás.’

  ‘And I’m assuming the other guy from the van. In his forties, heavyset.’

  Evan knew it wasn’t Henry. He’d skipped the part about shooting Henry in the knee when he told her what happened at the cabin. He was waiting for the right moment, that was all. This wasn’t it. He let her think maybe it was Henry. He had a better idea of who it was. He’d never met him, but given the age, the circumstances and the timing, he’d put money on it being Ira Waits.

  Ira Waits, come to avenge his brother. Going up against Lauren Stone, née Kincade, looking for the blood of the man who killed her mother.

  No prizes for guessing who was going to get caught in the middle.

  Chapter 52

  IT WAS DARK when Evan parked a block to the east and south of the entrance to Westminster Hall and Burying Ground on West Fayette Street in Baltimore. Overhead, the heavy clouds threatened rain. He still had an hour to kill before meeting Lauren.

  His stomach complained loudly, reminding him he hadn’t eaten all day, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to get anything down. He’d feel like a man with a 6 a.m. appointment with his maker ordering his last meal. He sat for a half hour, phone in his hand, composing a text in his mind to Guillory. The rain had started to fall in earnest, big fat drops drumming on the car roof, streaking the windshield, when she beat him to it.

  Be careful.

  Looking out into the wet, windy night he couldn’t bring himself to send back, wish you were here. He kept it simple.

  Always.

  That would make her laugh if nothing else.

  A minute before ten he got out, the rain bouncing off the sidewalk, and headed down an alley opposite which took him to University Square Park, a block south of where he needed to be. Heading north he came to the back wall of the cemetery, four feet of old stone topped by another four feet of brick. It was the highest section of wall, the road sloping down as it ran southwards, but he wanted the protection of the mature trees that overhung the wall. The main entrance was on the north side of the block, the furthest point from where he now stood

  He waited until there was no traffic, put his foot on a low concrete step that ran along the bottom of the wall and hoisted himself up. Resting a hand on the nearest tree, he steadied himself for a few seconds, then jumped down on the other side. He landed silently on the soft, wet grass below, next to the rusty metal railings that enclosed the McHenry plot. Dropping to his haunches, he pressed his back into the safety and protection of the wall. In the deeper darkness under the trees and with the imposing stone vault of Major General Sam Smith on his right he was invisible.

  Directly in front of him were a number of low grave markers and regular headstones set into the grass. Beyond that was the imposing bulk of Westminster Hall itself. Pushing harder into the comforting embrace of the old stone wall, the rain dripping through the leaves above him, he wondered how many other pairs of eyes were at this very moment staring into the open ground in front of him, waiting for someone to make the first move.

  He needed to get to Poe’s original grave. That was where he’d find Lauren, not at the fancy marble monument he was moved to. He crept forward, pressed hard into the deep shadow of the general’s vault. At the corner he stopped and looked out across the burial ground, his eyes more accustomed to the dark now. In front and to the right of him were a number of low, stone-built vaults, all of them big enough for a person to hide behind.

  He skirted around the front of the vault, moving quickly between the Stewart vault on his left and Pannell on his right, then dived back into the safety of the dank darkness under the back wall. Ahead and to the right was Poe’s original grave marker. He settled in to wait.

  At exactly ten thirty a movement caught his eye. A shadow detached itself from the wall of the Buchanan and Calhoun vault, a large structure with a pointed roof directly ahead of him on the other side of the open ground. But instead of coming towards him, towards Poe’s original grave, it moved to the side wall of the hall itself, then turned right along the back wall, disappearing from view.

  He stood up from his crouch, his knees cracking loudly from the time in one cramped position. In the stillness at the back of the burial ground, away from the hiss of the traffic on the wet pavement of West Fayette Street, it sounded as if someone had taken a shot at him with a rifle. He waited, not breathing, his heart pounding in his chest. Nothing moved. Then a gust of wind whipped the branches of the trees above him, showering him, the cold water down his collar galvanizing him to life. He crept forward, keeping to the shadows of the large vaults on his left. At the corner of each one he stopped to listen before he dashed forward, expecting at any second a sudden rush of air, the impact of something hard on the back of his head.

  He reached the far end of the Dugan vault, the one nearest the back of the hall, an old brick path directly in f
ront of him. He stuck his head out quickly, saw a dark shape disappear around the corner at the far end of the path. Turning left, he followed the path until he got to a low brick arch set into the back wall. Iron railings filled the opening from the ground to the pointed top. He stepped closer, peering through the bars into the dark interior.

  Westminster Hall had started life as a church, built on the much older Burying Grounds. When it was built, the graveyard had already been full. To avoid disturbing the existing graves, the original church building had been constructed on brick piers above some of the tombs.

  He was looking into the catacombs, housing some of the oldest vaults and gravestones. It was a fitting place to meet with someone who wanted everyone to think they had died five years earlier. It would be an equally fitting place to meet your own maker.

  A shiver rippled up the back of his neck as he stared into the murky blackness, knowing that whoever waited inside had the advantage. To someone hiding inside, he would be silhouetted against the relative light of outside, the glow from the streetlights beyond the cemetery walls more than enough of a backdrop.

  He moved on, staying close to the back wall, away from the light cast by the streetlights on Greene Street. He passed more brick archways, all of them barred with similar iron railings. A sudden noise made him freeze, straining his ears. The faint sound of metal scraping on metal came from up ahead. He turned the corner. The path stretched away in front of him towards the main gate and the monument to Poe. Hugging the wall, he moved quickly up the side of the hall.

  Halfway along, opposite the cemetery side entrance, was a taller archway with a gate set into it. A padlock hung open on the hasp, one that would normally be kept locked. Someone had a key, was inviting him to join them inside. Whoever it was had pulled the gate closed after them. That was the sound he heard earlier. He knew before he laid a hand on it that it would make a similar noise when he pushed it open. There might as well have been a doorbell to announce his arrival.

  He stood to one side of the entrance, his back to the wall. Stretching his arm, he pushed the gate an inch. It moved smoothly, silently, as if it had been recently oiled. Feeling more confident he pushed it another six inches. The resulting shriek of metal on metal sounded as if he’d prised open the lid on the oldest tomb, setting free a host of wailing banshees. He turned his head away instinctively, covering his face with his arm, as if they were swarming past his head into the night sky.

  The damage done, any chance of a silent entry blown, he pushed the gate open all the way, stepped quickly inside and to the left of the entrance. Ahead of him the vaults were indistinct in the gloom. He waited, letting his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. He felt like Clarice Starling in the movie Silence of the Lambs, creeping around in the pitch dark while the psychopath Jame Gumb watched her through night-vision goggles.

  The floor was bone dry, old brick covered with reddish-brown dirt. It stuck to his sodden shoes, crunched and scraped under his footsteps, however slowly he inched around the wall. At the north-west corner he paused and looked out through another of the archways. He saw the Poe monument in the corner, the main gate onto West Fayette Street to the right. Traffic was heavier on West Fayette, a soft hiss of wet tires echoing in the low-ceilinged catacombs, masking his footsteps. No need to worry now. Not about his own footsteps, anyway.

  There was a lull in the traffic as the lights on West Fayette turned red. He strained his ears. Nothing. If the padlock hadn’t been open, he’d have questioned whether he actually saw someone lead him in here. As soon as the traffic noise resumed, he carried on moving around the wall, darting across the exposed archways until he came to a large brick crypt. In the darkness he made out a square opening in the brick wall, a deeper patch of night—an entrance into the crypt below.

  A damp, musty smell that made him think of old bones clothed in rotting tatters climbed up the steps, calling him down into the inky blackness to join them. It could be two feet deep or ten, there was no way to tell. He stood at the opening, covering it with his body as he flicked on the flashlight on his phone and immediately off again, no more than a fraction of a second, just long enough to imprint an image on his subconscious mind—a narrow staircase cut into the earth leading down into a deep chamber that widened out at the bottom.

  A car horn blared suddenly in the street outside making him jump. Then another sound, softer, closer. Much closer. The catacombs around him receded and disappeared as his senses heightened. The noise of the traffic faded away, and the faint glow of streetlights through the archways seemed to dim further. Now there was only the sound of his blood in his ears, the stale, damp smell of the crypt in his nose and the smell of something else, something that spoke of life, that had no place here where the dead lay all around. The smell of a woman’s perfume.

  He started to turn.

  ‘Lauren?’

  Two hands pressed onto his back and pushed sharply. He threw out his arms to spread-eagle himself across the opening, caught one edge with the fingertips of his left hand. It wasn’t nearly enough. His grip was already slipping when she rapped him hard across the knuckles with a chunk of broken tombstone, mashing his fingers into the ancient brick of the crypt.

  He hissed in pain, lost the last of his grip. He twisted his body as he teetered at the top of the stairs, throwing his right arm out wildly, flailing backwards as he fell. He caught a handful of fabric in his fist, dug his fingers into it. She gasped in surprise and lost her balance. His weight pulled them both backwards, tumbling down the narrow steps into the crypt below.

  His shoulders hit the ground first, the impact jarring every bone in his body, paralyzing him. She landed on top of him, driving the back of his head into the hard ground. Face down on top of him, their faces pushed together like a pair of lovers in a desperate clinch, she threw a punch at his head.

  He clamped his arms around her in the pitch black, squeezed her tight, felt her ribs compressing her lungs, the damp warmth of her body pressed against his, her wet hair flicking in his eyes. She kicked and bucked, an angry growl at the back of her throat, trying to bring her knee up into his groin as the breath and strength slowly ebbed out of her body.

  Her struggles grew weaker, then stopped altogether, her head flopping until her forehead rested on his face. He relaxed his grip. Straightaway, she headbutted him. She missed his nose in the dark, caught him on the mouth instead, splitting his lip. The blow came from nowhere out of the darkness. He yelped in surprise and pain. Encouraged, she tried it again but he’d already dropped his chin to his chest. Her brow smashed into the solid mass of the top of his head, dazing her. She grunted, a hot rush of breath in his face, then her body went limp in his arms.

  He rolled them both over, sitting astride her as she moaned softly under him. In the absolute darkness it could have been anyone under him as he held both her wrists in one hand, but it was Guillory’s face that he saw in his mind. He covered her mouth with his other hand, squeezing her cheeks harder than he wanted as she twisted her head from side to side, tried to bite his hand. Feeling her strength as she writhed beneath him, he leaned in close, put his mouth against her ear. With the taste of her warm skin on his lips and the wet smell of her hair in his nose, he almost whispered lie still, Kate.

  ‘Levi sent me.’

  She arched her back, offering her throat to him, an adrenal spike of strength lifting them both off the ground as if he were a priest pressing a crucifix into her corrupt flesh, reciting the sacred words of an exorcism prayer.

  He ran through everything he knew about her, his voice fast and low—the deaths of her parents, and of Garrett Waits, the car crash and her faked death. He threw in the details of the bracelet and the inscription on it and how that had led to this moment, breathless bodies pressed together in a strangely intimate embrace, here in Poe’s final resting place. He felt the tension ebb away as he talked, felt her body relax under him, her mouth soften behind his hand.

  He turned his hand, pressed a finge
r to her lips.

  ‘Don’t scream.’

  He felt her head nod.

  ‘You’re squashing me.’

  He climbed off and squatted with his back resting against the wall, heard her pushing herself into a sitting position at the same time.

  ‘Where’s Levi?’ she whispered. ‘I saw you and panicked. I had no idea who you were.’

  ‘He’s not coming.’

  ‘So, what now? The idea was for us to talk things through.’

  ‘You’ll have to come back with me.’

  He had the impression she was shaking her head in the darkness.

  ‘I can’t. Not until—’

  ‘You’ve finished the job? Ira Waits.’

  The pause made him think the next words would be a lie.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He wished he could see her face. Not that it mattered anyway. They were out of time.

  They heard the footstep at the top of the stairs at the same time. Before they had a chance to move a powerful flashlight lit up the crypt, blinding them.

  ‘I heard my name taken in vain,’ said a man’s voice from the top of the stairs.

  A second flashlight beam played down the stairs, flicking between Evan and Lauren’s faces.

  ‘Like shooting fish in a barrel, eh, Tomás?’ the same voice said.

  ‘Fish in a barrel, Ira,’ Tomás agreed. ‘Fish in a barrel.’

  Chapter 53

  EVAN SHIELDED HIS EYES with his hand, looked at Lauren. She was on her knees, sitting back on her heels. Small and vulnerable, her hair wet and tangled, she made him think of a young deer caught in a car’s headlights in the rain. Without warning, he dived at her. His chest hit her on the shoulder, knocking her backwards, his momentum carrying them both six feet beyond the bottom of the narrow stairs. She squealed in surprise as she landed on her back with Evan on top, their faces breath-mingling close for the second time. She squirmed out from under him and scuttled away on her butt to lean against the wall, looking even more like a frightened animal.