The Third Grave

by David Case

  Things clamped together in my mind, gears meshed and turned other pieces.

  “Do you know why Snow was here?”

  “Why, not really. He was interested in Lucian’s theories, I suppose. I know they spent lots of time in the workroom. But I’m not sure just why. I mean—a brain surgeon and an Egyptologist seemed an unlikely coupling.”

  “Doesn’t it, though.”

  “Is something wrong, Thomas?”

  “I’m afraid something is dreadfully wrong.”

  She regarded me levelly, still holding a fork in her hand, staring across the table.

  “What is it?”

  “Arabella, did you see Snow examine Sam?”

  “No. But that’s only natural. I mean, he wouldn’t want me looking over his shoulder. But I was off somewhere when Sam fell. Let’s see. Yes, I was in the garden. Lucian thought he’d left his cigarette case there and sent me to fetch it. Turned out he’d merely left it in another jacket. I came back just as the three of them were going to the laboratory—the workroom, I mean. I could tell right away that something was wrong, because Snow and Lucian both looked, well, worried, I guess. That is, I didn’t think they looked worried at the time, Snow looked more sort of frightened, but afterward I saw they must have been worried because Sam was injured.”

  My voice interrupted tersely, “And Sam? Was he unconscious?”

  “No, he was walking. I thought later that was strange, but at the time, of course, I didn’t know he’d been hurt. But it was a curious thing. Sam seemed perfectly normal before Snow examined him. He turned and winked at me. I think he fancied me, poor man. Then Lucian told me to go to my room, that they had important work. Later he came to my room and told me how Sam had fallen down the stairs and injured his head and how Snow had managed to save his life but feared he was permanently affected. It was a complete surprise to me, especially after Sam had appeared so normal the last I saw him. I asked Lucian about it, as a matter of fact. He said that head injuries often took a course like that. Delayed effect, or something, he said. Even then, I wasn’t prepared for it when I saw Sam again. I felt so badly about it. And he’s getting worse, you know.” She paused and assumed a pained expression before continuing quietly, “I suppose he’ll die. At first he was just, well, dazed, but in the last few days he’s been so violent. He gets the most terrible look in his eyes. And Lucian has taken to locking him in his room.”

  “When did he start—locking him in?”

  “Just yesterday. After he returned from town. I suppose because of what happened with father.”

  I was gnawing my lip.

  “I’m sure that Lucian doesn’t take proper care of him, Thomas. I can’t understand why he insists on keeping him here. And Sam, poor Sam—he can’t even bathe himself, I suppose. I know he’s starting to smell bad.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  My words frightened her.

  “What is it, Thomas?”

  I shook my head.

  “Please, what’s wrong?”

  I stared at her. Why was she here? I said, “His talk of—immortality. Has he promised you that?”

  “Well, he did, actually,” she confessed with an embarrassed smile. “He’s always talking about how we would live forever. He’s such a strange man, he sounded as if I was supposed to take him seriously. It’s hard to tell when he jokes that way. But of course he must have been joking. Or else I didn’t understand him.”

  “Arabella, he was perfectly serious.”

  “Serious? But how could he be. I mean, he’s not crazy.”

  “No, he’s not crazy. But what could be more serious than immortality? Something worse than madness drives him toward—toward something yet worse. Arabella? Would you want to live forever?”

  She smiled bemusedly and perceived that I too was speaking in a serious manner of impossible things. “I don’t know. I’ve never considered it, really. I guess I’m a practical girl at heart. But please, Thomas. Tell me what is wrong?”

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “Are you—planning to do something?”

  I nodded grimly. I was indeed planning to do something, and it was not something I anticipated with pleasure. Already my spine was tingling.

  “I have to see Sam,” I said.

  “I’m sure Lucian—”

  “Without Lucian. Definitely without Lucian.”

  “He’s been so frenzied, Thomas. Should you go to his room alone?”

  Perhaps not.

  Perhaps I should go, instead, out the battered oaken door and down the weed-­engulfed drive and along the hedgerow-­rimmed road until I came to Farriers Bar. Perhaps then I should speak to Inspector Peal, who would not believe me, and board the first train back to London where I quite remorselessly might suppress all conscious recollection of Lucian Mallory and Sam Cooper and Encephalon and Egypt and all things proper for mortal man to forget. Perhaps I should live at my cottage in blissful oblivion and grow old through a normal span.

  But I would not do that. I could not walk away from this without knowing. Perhaps I could not even walk away at all, for Amos Snow had departed this house, knowing precisely what I knew, and Amos Snow’s cadaver had been found by Melville Coots, mangled and torn. I did not want my body found, not that way, not yet, although I was very certain that someday I intended to die. That gave me courage. Perhaps it was the courage of desperation, but it was not false. Every man, born, owes a debt to death, and that debt must be paid. One day it must be paid. I felt rather calm and determined. Arabella was still standing there across the table, staring at me, not understanding whatever expression had come over my countenance. Nor did I care to explain. I left her there, went down the stairs, and without hesitating once I proceeded directly to that barred door in the dark corridor. I did hesitate then, but only for a moment.

  Then I lifted the bar.

  Sam was on the bed.

  I stood at the open door, allowing my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The chamber was small and cold, illumined by misty grey light venturing ineffectually through a high leaded window. The window was unlatched, accounting for the chill, but nevertheless the air seemed heavy with an offensive odor. Sam did not move. I thought he was sleeping and moved closer, then saw that his eyes were wide open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. They looked strange, dull, like the eyes of Encephalon; as if no moisture remained in them. I stood beside the bed. He continued to ignore me. “Sam?” I said. There was no response. I bent down. The stench arose to assail my senses. I reached out, and my hand hesitated willfully, hovering in the air, trembling with reluctance. My hand was only mortal, it rebelled. I had to force it down, onto his breast. He made no move as I touched him. He didn’t move at all. Nothing moved on that bed. Sweat was running down my face and neck, despite the cold, but Sam’s face was dry. Even his mouth was dry; he no longer drooled uncontrollably, and his lips seemed to have darkened and shriveled back from his teeth.

  His hand was at his side.

  I touched the wrist with my fingertips.

  The flesh was cold and nothing moved. I felt that cold run up my fingers, along my arm, down my spine.

  I stood back, looking at him with horror.

  Suddenly Sam’s head wrenched toward me.

  Yellow eyes writhing, he glared at me.

  His face started to change. It changed as no human face ever should. I was at the door before I was aware of moving; through the entrance and hurling the door closed behind me. I saw movement at the last moment, through the angle, and then the door slammed shut. I dropped the heavy bar into place. Just as the bar struck, solidly, the massive door shuddered and exploded from within. It jarred within the frame, just once, and the sound echoed in the passage. Then it was still. It’s all right now, I told myself. But it was not all right. Nothing was all right. I raised my hand and stared at my fingers. They seemed alien, transforme
d by tactile contact, cold, bloodless.

  Sobbing, I walked back down the corridor.

  The foul stench was still in my nostrils.

  I knew what it was.

  I had touched him; I knew.

  No heart beat within his breast, no blood pulsed in his wrist, the stench was that of decaying flesh. I had not entered a room; I had entered a grave.

  Mallory was in his study, a rather barren room with unadorned walls and a window overlooking the crumbling outbuildings and stone fences. He was smoking. I entered without a word, and he peered at me expectantly: “Returning to work now?” Then he saw my expression and frowned.

  “I’ve just come from Sam’s room.”

  “Oh? That was rather—daring.”

  “I know, Mallory. I know what Sam is. God knows how or why, but I touched him. Mallory, what fiendish thing have you done?”

  Mallory sighed.

  “Well, there’s no help for it,” he said. “I suppose you had to know eventually. But you’re an intelligent man, Ashley. You must understand.”

  “Was Snow not intelligent?”

  He gave me a sharp look. He hesitated, perhaps debating whether to essay deceit, then shrugged once more. “Snow was a doctor,” he said. “They have those damnable ethics. Yes, he was intelligent, but he was a captive within his own code of behavior.”

  “Like Sam is a captive in that room?”

  “Eh? Ah, well, captivity takes many forms. Sam’s body is imprisoned in a cold room, but, more to the point, Sam’s mind is hopelessly entrapped within his cold body. That is regrettable. As I’ve told you, I am never deliberately cruel. I didn’t wish to hurt Snow, you understand. I trusted him. As I’ve trusted you, Ashley. But he betrayed me, he refused to help me. I had to force him. Then, after it was done, he escaped. I wasn’t careful enough, I was too excited about the experiment.” He stubbed his cigarette out and immediately lighted another. “Still, perhaps it was better. Otherwise I’d have had to keep him indefinitely, at great trouble.”

  “He—operated on Sam?”

  “He infused the chemicals, yes.”

  “And—” Even knowing what I did, it was difficult to utter the words: “And killed him?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Death—bodily death—appears to be a necessary side effect of the process. It was the same with the dog. Perhaps the chemicals themselves cause it, or perhaps the brain, preserved, simply wills termination of the other physical functions. I can’t really say, as yet. I’d hoped Snow would be able to tell me.”

  “But why, Mallory? Why did you do it?”

  “Why?” He seemed surprised.

  “Why destroy Sam?”

  “Ashley, Ashley, don’t you understand? Sam is far more than he was.”

  “More? My God, man. He’s rotting!”

  “Yes, I’m afraid he is. But he isn’t the first. Many men, better men than Sam, have lain living in their graves as the long years toll and have persisted within the silence of their skulls. Is one more so important?”

  “Mallory—I’ll grant you’re seeking something—something you consider good. But you’ve admitted yourself that you haven’t discovered the process of preserving the flesh. You deliberately condemned Sam to living corruption.”

  “Regrettably, yes. But I had to be sure, Ashley. I am no surgeon. When I treated the dog’s brain, and the animal died, how could I know but what my own clumsy efforts were responsible? The process took effect, yes, but how could I tell what was part of the process and what was caused by my own blunders. The brain is a complex thing, Ashley. It can’t be chiseled like a block of granite. I’d hoped that under Snow’s skilled hands, Sam would truly live.”

  He spoke as if it were a calculated risk; as if it were perfectly reasonable.

  “And Sam’s madness? The loss of mental facilities?”

  Mallory grimaced.

  “Another blunder,” he conceded, turning up his palms. “Snow was too nervous. I expect that’s understandable, given the circumstances. His scalpel slipped, cut a few millimeters too deeply or on the wrong tangent. Perhaps, who knows, it was deliberate. What he might have considered a mercy killing. But make no mistakes, Ashley. The process was absolutely successful. The infusion into the brain matter worked just as I had predicted. The insanity—well, that was merely a side effect, a fractional error of trembling fingers. The next time, he would have avoided that.”

  I was stunned. “The next time?”

  “Of course.”

  “Who, Mallory?”

  He looked away.

  “Arabella?”

  “Well—perhaps. Only if I was certain of success, you understand. Arabella, young and beautiful forever—” I was controlling myself with great difficulty. He did not seem aware of this, enveloped in a frenzy of oneiric imaginings. He said, “But Sam can still be saved. It isn’t too late. It’s up to you now.”

  “Me? I want no part of this.”

  Mallory cocked his head.

  “But, Ashley. If you can decipher the ancient knowledge, if you can discover the related process of preserving the body, Sam will live. Insane, yes, but alive. That should appeal to your ethics, does it not? And think, Ashley! If you fail, think what Sam must endure.”

  I could only stare at him.

  “Perhaps, in a fashion, it’s just as well that Sam is deranged,” he said, trying to placate me. “Grief, horror, all the emotions, are caused only by chemical imbalance in the brain. Sam can feel no emotions now. Except the most basic—” He paused thoughtfully. I walked over to the window and gazed out. It was darkening now, and the stone fences emerged like some obscure maze set to confound the minds of men. But they had crumbled in many places, and would not have the span of the pyramids. I could feel Mallory’s eyes at my back. When I turned he continued to stare at me, judging, deliberating.

  “How can you know what Sam feels?” I asked.

  “A good point,” he said. “I thought I knew, but after—after the lad was killed—”

  I’d forgotten young Brooke; that bucolic tragedy seemed to have no place in this terrible scheme. I moved back to his desk.

  “Sam killed them both?”

  Mallory nodded.

  “For God’s sake, why? Why the boy?”

  “There have been so many mistakes, Ashley. I suppose it must ever be so as we stumble blindly after new secrets. I’d had to send Sam after Snow, you understand that. He escaped, and I couldn’t allow him to destroy all that I’ve strived for. I sent Sam after him. Sam can move quickly once his course is determined. It takes a considerable time for his initial movements, but after the impulse is finally sent out he commands great speed and unbelievable strength. He went out with the bandages still swathed around his head, the loose ends trailing down his back. I wasn’t sure he would succeed. You may well imagine with what anxiety I awaited his return. He was gone for some time. Then he came back. His hands and face were bloody, and I knew then that it was all right. Well, not all right but—necessary.”

  Drained of emotion, I asked, “And the boy?”

  “Ah. You gave me quite a shock when you told me about that. It was Sam, of course. I’d taken no precautions; I had no reason to think him dangerous. Why did he kill a second time?” He gestured, palms rotating. “I’ve a couple theories about that. Who knows how a deranged mind works, even in a living body? Some shred of memory retention remaining, perhaps? Once instructed to kill, he remembered the command? Took it as a constant? I think that likely. Or can it be that he is now reduced to the basic drive of carnivore man? He no longer has a sex drive, he requires no food, no warmth. Is bloodlust more basic than any impulse? It may well be, Ashley. Sad but true. Our ancestors had no sex drive, they reproduced by splitting themselves apart. Plants need food, they produce their own. But the need to destroy other organic matter—is that not the root of all living beh
avior, the common denominator, the initial impulse sparking the first life at the dawn of time?” Mallory sneered and directed a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “A question for the philosophers, that. I can’t pretend to know. It might be far more simple, perhaps an effect of the chemicals Snow infused in his brain. As his own blood dries up, does he feel the urge for that of others?” He expelled a long breath. “Well, in time we will know these things. But, for the moment, I only know he has the urge to kill.”

  “And his great strength?”

  “Interesting, that. But quite simple. He has the strength of the madman. He is bound by no inhibitions, he can feel no pain, he has the power of total concentration on his purpose. He is almost invulnerable, Ashley. His nervous system, his arteries, pain centers, bones—they are dead. He could exert himself on an impossible task until his very skeleton snapped apart. He cannot be wounded. Great holes might be torn in his flesh, he would feel nothing; he would not even bleed much, for blood does not flow when the heart no longer pumps.” Mallory was totally engrossed in his thoughts as he continued, “It will be enlightening—if you fail, Ashley—to see how he deals with a task once his tendons have severed apart and his muscles have turned pulpy with decay. But perhaps you will not fail—”

  I wanted to kill him.

  My fists were knotted at my sides, and I yearned to spring across his desk and clamp my hands over his throat, to eradicate him from existence; to consign him forthwith to whatever afterlife served the dregs of mankind. But I could not. Hideous as it was, I had a duty to Sam Cooper. In that, Mallory was right. If I could pluck the secret process from the runic inscriptions, perhaps Sam could be saved. Saved? A strange word. My mind reeled with the concept, the sheer horror. Perhaps my body swayed. Mallory was regarding me strangely. Then I saw he was not looking at me, but rather beyond me, at the door. I turned quickly, fearing God knows what, in terror of what loomed upon the threshold.

  But it was Arabella.

  She stood pale, trembling.

  “I’m sorry you overheard,” Mallory chided. “You don’t understand—”