Catacomb (22 page)

He checked one more time up and down the alley. A single cat watched him from a fence separating the back of the building from the others behind it. But even the cat didn’t seem much interested in what he was doing. Dan swiveled, knocking the window screen into the room with one hard kick. But in so doing, he lost his balance, toppling inside and swallowing a panicky shriek as he fell into what felt like a bin full of old bath towels.

He popped up, gracelessly rolling out of the bin and onto the floor. Frantic, he beat at his arms, dust flying off his sleeves in choking clouds. The giant box he’d fallen into spilled over with old velvet cloths that looked like table runners, most likely decorations for the caskets or altars. Nothing strange about that. In fact, nothing at all about the large, open room he had fallen into seemed strange. It was only slightly lower than street level, with cobwebbed chandeliers and the kind of classic, sophisticated paneling and trim that recalled the old world. He could just imagine the hundreds, maybe thousands, of families that had come and gone through here over the years, grieving and saying final words. Dark stripes on the floor indicated where the rows of benches had been for mourners, and the carpet
walkway that had led to the casket was still there, though now badly in need of vacuuming and slightly askew.

The dirty windows allowed in just enough light for him to safely navigate the halls to the other rooms. He went right, following a thin corridor toward the back of the building. The only other way would be to go down to the front foyer, which seemed to be the path to the main door. He stepped lightly, wary of the creaking floorboards. The building had been abandoned for years, judging by the thick clumps of dust that flew up in his wake and shivered down from the walls just from the light breeze of his passing.

At the end of the corridor, an open door waited.

Dan paused in the frame, taking in the floor-to-ceiling wooden cabinets of an office. An imposing wooden desk stretched across most of the floor, long-abandoned cushioned chairs left in their original positions. This could have been where the owners arranged the services and sold the caskets. It was strange that the furniture remained. The desk was heavy, sure, but probably worth moving if it could be sold to an antique dealership.

That thought, however, quickly fled as he felt an eerie chill coalesce behind him. It wasn’t just a random air duct coming to life, but a concentration of cold energy. He turned, feeling his heart convulse and freeze and then pump again. His mouth hung open a little as he came face-to-face one more time with his father.

But Marcus didn’t notice him. He passed through Dan like a sigh, striding quickly into the office. Dan turned and watched, transfixed, as the shape of his father attacked drawer after drawer. The drawers in the present didn’t react, but clearly Marcus had been searching for something.

“You’re sure it’s here, Evie?” he said, the dark baritone of his voice tinged on the edges with odd reverberation. The words echoed within themselves, somehow, as if straining to travel through time to Dan. “Just help me look, Goddamn it! We don’t have time.”

Then he paused, standing from where he had been kneeling to inspect a cabinet, and turned toward something or someone. Marcus hugged what should have been another body, but was simply air. “I didn’t mean to shout at you. That was . . . This whole mess just has me on edge. Promise me we can leave. Promise me we can get out of town once you’re satisfied.”

His father leaned in to kiss someone, smiling sadly, and then went back to searching the cabinet drawers. Dan inched closer, wanting to see his father up close, wanting to confirm he was really seeing this. No quick blip of the mind could do this. It was so clear, clearer and crisper than any vision he had stumbled into before. Maybe because it was more recent than the moment in the Arlington School, or because the connection was that much stronger here. He didn’t understand it, but he watched, his chest tight with loss.

“You found it? Oh, thank God. Show me. . . .” Marcus whirled around, crossing to the other side of the office. Dan watched his father reach for a specific row of cabinets and yank at the handle. “The label’s worn off, but this has to be right. Wait. What was that? Did you hear that? Evie, we have to go. Just . . . Damn it, Evie! Leave it! We don’t have time!”

And he could swear his father—no more corporeal than blue smoke, but still his father—turned and looked him directly in the eye. “We have to leave. There’s no time!”

Just like before, he vanished as abruptly as he had appeared. Dan shivered, frightened by the thought that he could conjure those memories just by walking in the right place at the right time. But last time his father had shown him something—maybe this time it would work, too.

His hand trembled as he pulled open the last cabinet Marcus had touched. Alphabetized folder tabs sprung up, aged but legible. They fluttered softly as he ran his hand over them. He flipped through the tabs, stopping at
ARMAINE—ASPEN
.

One folder stuck up at a funny angle, never quite pushed all the way back down after his mother had tried to take it. Just like his father had said, the label was missing, leaving it anonymous but for the doodle someone had drawn in pen on the outside. It looked like a squished smiley face.

Dan glanced through the open doorway that led back to the corridor. Still alone. He quickly grabbed the folder, trying to decide whether to take it and go or read it right there. His curiosity got the better of him, and he pulled out the top sheets. They were funeral arrangements, all for various people named Ash. The first few were all people who’d been born in the sixties, which could easily have made them members of his mother’s immediate family. Maybe sisters, a cousin . . . God. All of them dead, most within a few years of one another, between 1990 and 1995. The funeral director had scribbled notes about the deceased—
automobile accident, automobile accident, accidental drowning, drug overdose. . . .

While suggestive, it didn’t explain anything for sure. It didn’t
prove
anything. There had to be something he wasn’t seeing. Dan kept looking further back through the Ash family
records, trying to spot anomalies, and when that turned up nothing, trying to spot similarities.

And then he saw it.

In the most recent deaths, the funeral director had arranged for the remains to be picked up and transferred to the building. The driver dispatched to the locations was the same every time.

Stanton Finnoway.

A brother? A cousin? It didn’t matter.

“I knew it,” Dan whispered, taking the papers and folding them messily. “That bastard.”

A single footfall creaked down the hall.

“N
ame-calling? Really?”

Why had Dan thought he had more time? Hadn’t his father warned him to leave? The footstep he’d heard belonged to Tamsin. Finnoway was already there, just behind him. Dan was cornered and outnumbered, and reasonably confident that the councilman could outmatch him in a fight.

He backed into the cabinet, closing it as he went.

“Is there a reason you’re trespassing on my property?” the councilman asked, his eyes going at once to the papers folded up in Dan’s hand. “Or just out for a stroll?”

“There’s no way to make this look better, is there?” Dan tried to gauge his chances of making a dash for the door. Tamsin wasn’t exactly brawny, but she also seemed like the type to carry a weapon.

“No, there really isn’t.” Finnoway nodded toward Dan’s hand and the old records tucked away in it. “I assume you think you’ve found something important. That’s actually touching. I’m touched in this moment. Do you know why?”

“I couldn’t care less,” Dan muttered. He could try to inch his way around the room and circle, but that would take forever. Maybe Oliver would come looking for him, but that
seemed like a distant possibility. He couldn’t count on anyone but himself in this godforsaken town.

“I’m touched because you
were
on the cusp of something,” Finnoway explained, gesturing Tamsin forward. He was wearing a long, light coat, one that looked like it could conceal any number of small weapons. Smiling, he snapped his fingers. Gloved fingers, Dan noticed—gloves made of sleek, black leather. “So close. Am I right? You had the most peculiar look on your face when you turned around just now. Wonderment and then—like that—
terror
. That’s where the real discoveries lie.”

The heat and color drained from Dan’s face.

“Tamsin, if you would please.”

She was faster than Dan could have predicted, striking like a coiled snake, lunging over Finnoway’s shoulder with a tiny, flashing needle. Before Dan could respond, he felt a light pricking sensation in his neck.

He had enough time to spin and see the assistant’s bloodred lips curl into a smile. Then the floor was right at his back, his chin, hitting him like a full-bodied punch. He couldn’t stop staring at the assistant’s shoes. They were so, so pointy. . . .

“Not a bad find,” he heard Finnoway rumble, the darkness suddenly acute and nauseating, tar thick and drowning him. “But not enough to wipe away the boy’s debt.”

H
e dipped into consciousness twice. The first time was when the first commotion started, a door banging open, startling him enough that he could open his eyes and see, briefly, blurred images of a stark white wall and a faceless face, lit from behind by a strong, white light. The air smelled strongly of antiseptic and underneath that, mint, stirring memories of childhood fears.

“I can’t believe I missed this. Another Ash. This should’ve been taken care of years ago. But it’s never too late to tie up loose ends.”

Then another face appeared, this one shinier and larger than the others. Looking at it was like staring into a void—no, a black, glittering orb like a starry sky—and then the face turned into a person and the person was breathing hard, carrying him. . . . Deep-sea noises surrounded him and then a dark, masculine voice made him shrivel up inside his skin.

“What the hell is this? Who are you? Stop him!”

The overwhelming nausea forced him back to sleep.

The second time he woke up, two familiar faces swam in front of his eyes. It took a frighteningly long time to discern any more than that, his head swaying back and forth as he tried to concentrate.

“I think he’s waking up.” It was Oliver’s voice, and the familiarity of it made Dan want to burst into tears. He was safe. Thank God he was safe. His hand ached like crazy, but at least he was no longer in Finnoway’s clutches.

Oliver’s familiar dark eyes came into focus; the other boy was kneeling next to the mattress on which Dan lay. Oliver put one hand on Dan’s shoulder, shaking gingerly. His eyes were huge, searching back and forth across Dan’s face. “I know you’re still weak, but I need you to try and remember.”

“Remember what?” Dan growled. Ugh. His throat felt like it had been rubbed with rocks. “Where am I?”

“You’re at my apartment and safe. Everything’s going to be okay, I just need you to think back. He must have said something. He had to say the words. Was our debt repaid? Was
my
debt repaid?”

Dan’s head swam as he tried to make sense of the question. His memories had fractured, and for the moment he could do nothing but blink back at the other boy. “I don’t understand. . . . Oliver, you saved me. You . . . I don’t know what that evil asshole would’ve done to me. He drugged me and then . . . I don’t remember much. I don’t remember
anything
.”

“You don’t?” Oliver sat back on his heels, then leapt to his feet and began pacing back and forth. “No, that’s not right. He
had
to say the words. This should’ve been enough. You should have been enough.”

Enough?
Dan blinked up at him through foggy eyes. His shirt smelled strangely minty, like he had just been to the dentist’s office. Just following Oliver’s path back and forth across the room made Dan dizzy again. “Oliver . . . What are you talking about?”

Stopping dead in his tracks, Oliver spun to face him, wringing his hands out and then approaching again to fall to his knees. “Dan. I messed up.”