Marion Lane and the Midnight Murder

by T. A. Willberg

  “No,” Marion said immediately. “We have no idea how long he’s going to stay here. We can’t risk it.”

  “But we don’t know who else is in there.” He pointed at the house and, as if in reply, another light flicked on through a second-floor window. “I could handle Swindlehurst if he’s alone, maybe.”

  “I’m planning to come with you, you realize that?”

  Kenny snorted. “With all due respect, Lane, you’re about the size of Swindlehurst’s left leg.”

  “It’s not only size and strength that counts. I have my ways.”

  “No.” Kenny shook his head. “This is a bad idea. Swindlehurst is capable of murder and you just told me he’s carrying around some acid that’s capable of burning through flesh. Jesus, Lane.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.

  “Fine, I’ve got a better idea,” she said, trying to keep her voice from rising. “You go back to the agency for help and I’ll wait here with the compass. If Swindlehurst leaves before you get back, I’ll follow him. I’ll leave you a note with the general direction and time we left.”

  Kenny stared blankly at her. “You can’t be serious? It could take me hours to get back to the agency and convince anyone to come with me. Nancy isn’t even back yet and most of the other employees are probably still recovering from last night.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to do your best.”

  Kenny shook his head. “Why don’t you go back to the agency for help and I’ll stay here?”

  “Because I’m better at reading the compass and...this was my idea.” The truth was that Marion didn’t trust Kenny as much as she trusted herself. Not because she thought he was some kind of double agent who might turn against her, as Bill still seemed to think, but rather because she knew he just wasn’t as invested in Swindlehurst’s capture as she was. She had more to lose.

  They stared at each other. A silent battle of wills. The longer it went on, the more nervous Marion became. A cold shiver erupted in her core, spreading swiftly through her chest, her limbs, smothering her breath. Every second they waited outside the house, every moment they allowed Swindlehurst to further implement his plan—whatever it was—their chances of stopping him diminished.

  “Fine,” Kenny said, at last defeated. “But stay right here and don’t do anything reckless.”

  “I’m the least reckless person you’ll ever meet.” Or so she had been up until a few days ago.

  Kenny eyed her suspiciously. Had he met her several weeks ago, he’d have agreed wholeheartedly with such a statement. “Sure you’ll be okay?”

  “Just hurry,” she added as Kenny finally relented and disappeared down the street and out of sight.

  For a moment Marion did nothing but stare at the dark house, her limbs heavy and weak. She pushed all thoughts of regret and self-doubt from her mind before they consumed her, and stepped up to the large steel gates—two towering walls of solid black metal. Through the slit in the center, she could just make out a narrow gravel path lined with overgrown and unshapely hedges that led to a short staircase and finally to the manor’s front door.

  The establishment appeared deserted, left to endure the decay of time and weather. She shivered. The gray light of the moon was beginning to creep out from behind the clouds. She stepped back farther into the street and looked up at the two windows on the second floor, through which a warm light still shone. Through the blazing window she noticed a tall, wide shadow move.

  Swindlehurst, no doubt.

  But there was someone else with him. A shorter figure, narrow shoulders and slumped in posture. Marion’s eyes burned as she strained to make out who the second figure was. Then the window cracked open and the second man leaned out. Marion dashed closer to the manor house wall.

  She heard the window slam, then looked down at the brass compass. The green light burned as brightly as ever for five minutes. Then it died. Not slowly, fading as it would with distance, but suddenly and completely. She cursed. Swindlehurst must have found, removed and destroyed the Vagor Stone. It was bound to happen eventually; she supposed they were lucky it had taken him this long to realize he was being tailed.

  She looked up at the window; the lamp inside was extinguished. If she waited for Kenny to arrive, she risked Swindlehurst handing over the vial or disappearing through some back door she didn’t know about. If either happened, all she’d achieved up until this point might be for nothing.

  She now had no choice.

  She removed the Skeleton Key from her pocket, then paused. Her hands were shaking, her limbs ice-cold. Some invisible force pressed on her shoulders and every movement she made seemed sluggish, as if held back by the resistance of it.

  She inserted the pointed edge of the Skeleton Key into the gate padlock. It twisted and twirled around itself until the lock clicked open. She slipped the gadget into her coat pocket, unhinged the chain that held the gate together and stepped back as it groaned and split apart. She hurried up the path just as the moonlight began to return, dangerously illuminating her in the lifting darkness.

  Marion pulled her coat tighter across her waist as she reached the manor’s front door. Curiously, the door stood slightly ajar. She pushed it farther open, stepped into the drafty foyer and came to a halt at the bottom of a rickety wooden staircase. Several of the stairwell’s steps had succumbed to rot and were caved in. Curtains of silvery cobwebs hung from the ceiling and the glass of a large bay window nearby was shattered.

  She needed to make sure Swindlehurst was still in the house. It was the whole reason she’d come inside. And yet...the thought of encountering him, especially now she knew all he was capable of, terrified her. She looked up at the landing above the staircase, from which she could hear the low bustle of voices. Swindlehurst and the second man, she assumed.

  A door opened in the corridor that led off from the landing.

  Marion launched herself into a small space under the staircase. The wooden slats above her head creaked as two pairs of feet came down the staircase.

  “When will she arrive?” asked a voice that was certainly Swindlehurst’s.

  “Within the hour,” said the second voice, a thin rasp-like sound. There was a stilted pause. “You’re sure this is the best way? It’s not too late to change the plan.”

  “It is too late. Everything is set in motion.”

  The hum of a car engine came from the street.

  “Ah,” said the man with the rasping voice. “Company at last.”

  A series of footsteps entered the foyer, a pair of boots followed by the muted protests of someone who appeared to be gagged. Swindlehurst and the other man made their way down the staircase to meet the new arrivals. There was an exchange of greetings. No names were given.

  “Any complications?” Swindlehurst asked.

  “None.”

  The muffled voice of whoever was gagged became louder.

  “For Christ’s sake, shut her up!” Swindlehurst commanded.

  The was a thump and silence. Swindlehurst breathed. “I’m sure this will be a simple exchange, but in the event that things get out of hand...” He sighed, as if regretting something he was yet to do. “No witnesses. Am I clear?”

  There was a grunt in reply.

  “Good,” Swindlehurst said. “Take her to the basement. Not you...wait outside by the gate.”

  “Sir?”

  Swindlehurst’s voice changed in tone, becoming heavier, bolder. “I’m afraid I may have a tail. If you see anyone hanging around outside, deal with them.”

  Marion forced herself to breathe. In out. In out. Softly, carefully, silently. One. Two. Three. She waited until Swindlehurst and the men had moved off from the foyer. Though in her state of terror, she wasn’t sure in which direction they’d gone. She pulled her knees toward her as a tremor, stronger and more vicious than before, rippled through her body.
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br />   Hurry, Kenny. Please hurry. Bring help.

  As she waited, a soft rain began to fall, pattering against the windows and ceiling. The house shifted and groaned in the wind. The smell of rot was all around her. Or perhaps it was just her imagination.

  Her mind ticked on furiously in the silence. She replayed everything she’d discovered since Michelle White’s death, all the pieces coming together to form a looming, ominous picture. She stared at her watch as the minutes passed.

  Please hurry, Kenny. Hurry.

  Eventually she decided she had to move. Swindlehurst had not reappeared, nor had any of his men. She couldn’t risk the chance that they might leave the house without her knowing. She pulled herself upright. Her legs were weak, cold, numb. She stood for a moment and listened. Rain and wind, the low moan of the old house, the distant drone of cars.

  No voices. No footsteps.

  She crossed the foyer to the room on the left.

  It was wide and open with a high ceiling. Paint peeled from the walls and picture frames hung loosely from exposed concrete. She stopped and listened.

  Two sounds came, one after the other.

  A door clicked closed from somewhere to her left. A pause, followed by a flesh-clawing scream that radiated from what must have been a basement beneath her feet. The sound was animalistic. Shrill, tearing, unbearable.

  For a moment Marion was unable to move. Trapped in her body, the terrified prey waiting to be taken.

  The scream came again, worse this time.

  She turned to a steel door, nestled in the wall to her left. The scream was coming from just beyond. She stepped forward and pressed her ear to the cold metal.

  “...clean up this mess!” said Swindlehurst.

  In the background, a woman was moaning in drawn-out notes.

  There was a scraping of furniture and a muffled yelp.

  “Get up!”

  “Please...no...let me go...please,” the woman begged. “Cut it off, please...just cut it off.”

  There was a loud thump. The moaning ceased immediately and was replaced by something that sounded very much like a body being dragged across the floor.

  Footsteps were coming toward the door. Marion looked around her; there was nowhere to hide and no chance she could run across the foyer and back under the staircase in time. She flattened herself against the wall. The door swung open in front of her.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the soft, careful shuffle as a pair of feet moved closer toward her. She cursed her stupidity, her curiosity and everything else that had got her into this mess.

  The door swung back.

  The man in front of her was not Swindlehurst but rather a tall, brute-like figure with a narrow and sunken face, dull eyes and thin pale lips.

  For a split second, the man was caught off guard, shocked by the sight of her.

  Marion took her chance. She lurched forward, flinging her right elbow into the assailant’s stomach and her left heel into his knee. He buckled over and clutched his stomach, gasping for air.

  She sped past and tore back toward the foyer, then skidded to a halt. The front door was secured with three thick bolts and padlocked. But even if she managed to open it, Swindlehurst had eyes just near the gate—the other man who’d been inside the house.

  She hesitated, her body flooded with adrenaline. The man she’d winded was on his feet and coming toward her. She sped up the staircase, three steps at a time. Thunderous footsteps followed after her. He might have been shouting, commanding her to stop. She was far too on edge to be sure, delirious with fear.

  The rotten slats creaked under her, some giving way as she sped upward. She slipped. Her boot crashing through a stair of particular decay. Splinters plunged into her leg. She didn’t feel a thing, ripping herself free and barreling onward, upward, away.

  She could feel the breath of the man behind her, hear the crash of his footsteps.

  She reached the landing just as Swindlehurst emerged from a door on her right; how he’d got there from the basement she didn’t know. They collided and Marion was knocked onto her back, her head crashing into the chipped concrete floor. A sharp, lightning-like pain traveled into her skull.

  Swindlehurst’s accomplice brought his right boot down onto her elbow, pinning her to the floor. She yelped as he dug his heel into her flesh.

  Marion placed her right hand between her throbbing skull and the floor. Swindlehurst stepped over her.

  “I thought so.” He sighed. Though dressed just the same as he always was when on duty at Miss Brickett’s—neat, well-tailored, sharp—Swindlehurst’s ordered and collected features were now in disarray. His normally unexpressive eyes gleamed.

  Marion struggled against the accomplice’s hold. He was crouched beside her, his right forearm pressing down on her throat with such force that she was sure her windpipe was about to break.

  She gasped for breath.

  “Not so hard, you idiot!” Swindlehurst snapped.

  The accomplice loosened his hold.

  Marion heaved, her lungs expanding so wildly it felt as if they might burst.

  Swindlehurst shoved the accomplice to the side, then lifted Marion into a seated position, pushing her back up against the corridor wall. He unbuttoned her coat and threw it off her shoulders. “Check it,” he ordered.

  The accomplice rummaged through her coat, groping every pocket, every seam. He pulled out the Skeleton Key, examining it with interest and confusion. “Sir?”

  Swindlehurst looked unconcerned as he glanced at the gadget. “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Swindlehurst turned back to Marion. He pressed his hands against her chest, then her stomach, her legs—feeling, searching, invading. He tore apart the top of her blouse, exposing her bra. She recoiled. The heat of his breath on her neck turned her stomach. Again, he ran his fingers down her chest, pausing as he came to a button slightly different from the rest, near the collar of her blouse. He ripped the bug from its anchor and traced the threadlike wire to where it connected to a minuscule battery pack attached to her skirt belt. He tore both wire and battery from her body and threw them against the wall.

  He did not search her further.

  When at last he spoke, it was in a seething whisper, so visceral she could feel it amplify around her. “Idiot girl. You think I wouldn’t check you for wires?” His face was twisted in a smug expression. He turned to his accomplice. “Take her to the basement. Quickly.”

  Despite Marion’s attempts to stop him, the brutish accomplice managed to drag her down the stairs and into the basement without much effort. They entered a cold, damp and dimly lit room—the room from where the screams had come. She was thrown onto the concrete floor face-first. The taste of warm copper filled her mouth as blood trickled from her lips.

  Marion pulled herself upright as the man left the room and locked the door behind him. She looked around. There was a gated staircase on the other side, presumably leading to the second floor—where Swindlehurst had apprehended her. At the base of the staircase, she saw a shape, a person.

  “Who’s there?”

  Marion moved closer, realizing the shape was the old woman from the clockwork shop, splayed out on the floor. Her eyes were swollen and red, her gray hair plastered to her face. Her lips were cracked and bloody, but worst of all was the smell—sickly sweet, burned. The woman, gingerly and as if it cost her great energy, pointed to her leg. Marion drew up Helena’s dress. The sight that met her eyes caused her to fall back on her hands.

  Helena’s right ankle had melted away. Flesh and fat and muscle singed to nothing but a dripping mess, only bone and strings of sinew remained. Marion covered her mouth as a wave of nausea came over her. Helena gripped her arm, her fingernails pressing into Marion’s flesh.

  “Please...help...” she groaned.

 
Marion mustered her strength. “It’s okay,” she said tenderly, gripping Helena’s hand, “help is on the way. It’s okay, just breathe.” She repeated the words over and over.

  Helena closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the concrete.

  What remained of Helena’s foot looked as if it were disappearing before her eyes. In fact, now that the full power of her senses had returned, Marion could hear the soft sizzle of flesh. With a horrid flash of disgust, she realized it was still burning, melting, dissolving.

  “Helena, look at me,” Marion pleaded, frightened that if the old woman did not open her eyes then, she never would again.

  Helena moaned and writhed. Tears poured down her face.

  “What happened? Is this from the stuff in the vial?” Marion asked, though she feared she already knew.

  Helena nodded. She began to mumble half-formed words. “Devil’s Blood... Devil’s Blood...he found me, he came to the shop...he found me...” She trailed off as her breathing became more labored.

  The sound and smell of sizzling flesh continued. Helena was solidly white, drained of every last ounce of resolve. The groaning and silent pleas for it to stop continued incessantly. Marion tried everything to ease Helena’s pain, but no matter what position she placed her in, or what she attempted to do to her disappearing limb, nothing seemed to help. She felt not only desperate and afraid, but guilty. Had Swindlehurst been outside Helena’s shop when Marion arrived there? Had he heard all the vile truths she’d told about him? Was that why he’d brought her here, to suffer for her indiscretion?

  Finally, the door of their dark prison sprang open. The brutish man was back, a pistol in his right hand.

  Helena gripped Marion’s forearm as he approached. She began to mumble, an incoherent string of pleas.

  Marion stood up as the man raised and aimed his pistol. But before she could do anything to stop it, he’d fired a single shot into Helena’s skull. Marion’s body jerked involuntarily as she turned to Helena’s limp form; a lake of dark viscous red leaked from beneath her head.

  “It was the kindest end,” the man said, sliding his pistol into his belt. “She would have begged for it before long.” He surveyed Marion for some time, as if he might say something further, then thought better of it. He took a step toward her. She did not back away, paralyzed with shock. He slammed the butt of his pistol against her left temple.