Ghouls of the Miskatonic (The Dark Waters Trilogy) (6 page)

Muldoon nodded, but didn’t reply. He turned back to the roped off crime scene, signaling that his patience with Rex had come to an end. Rex and Minnie made their way back to his rusty Ford and tried to contain the excitement of what Muldoon’s words potentially meant for their careers.

“Wow,” said Rex at last.

“Yeah,” agreed Minnie.

Rex looked around the athletics ground and sparked up another cigarette.

“We got to get this written up right now,” said Rex. “You got all you need, picture-wise?”

“A few doozies, Rex,” said Minnie. “The light’s going anyway, and I got some good shots of where they found the body, cops looking clueless, and the sun setting behind the hills. And that creepy guy over by the bleachers.”

“Good girl,” said Rex. “Wait, what creepy guy?”

“Over there, standing by the Crossley parked up at the bleachers.”

Rex couldn’t see who she was looking at until he realized a Crossley was a car, a big ugly car like the army used to drive in the war. Sure enough, there was a guy in a long brown duster and fedora watching what was going on, like some frontier lawman awaiting a gunfight.

“So who do you reckon he is?” asked Rex.

“Beats me, Rex,” said Minnie. “That Crossley’s ex-military, so I’d say soldier or private dick. Or maybe he’s some sicko that likes to get his ha-has from this kind of thing.”

“Or maybe he was just driving past and wondered what all the fuss was about.”

“Then why’s he taking notes?”

Rex peered through his glasses, seeing that Minnie was right; the man was writing something down in a pocket notebook.

“You want to go speak to him, too?” asked Minnie. “Could be something.”

Rex was about to answer her, but seeing that he was being observed, the man climbed into his car and drove away.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Rex.

“Don’t worry,” said Minnie. “I got the plates.”

“Clever girl,” said Rex, giving her a playful punch to the arm. “My clever, clever girl.”

CHAPTER THREE

The battered truck bounced along the rutted road, though to call it a road was a stretch.
More like barely visible dirt track
, thought Finn Edwards as he steered the heavy Model T through the darkened forest. Billington Woods was a few miles northwest of Arkham, seldom visited and isolated, which made it perfect for tonight’s meeting. Only the faintest glimmer of moonlight penetrated the thick forest canopy, and after a few hits of Jimmy’s whiskey, keeping the truck straight was an even greater challenge than normal.

“Jaysus, Finn, are you tryin’ to hit every bloody pothole in this damn road?” snapped Sean as a lit match fell from his hands. He cursed and stamped it out before lighting another and applying the flame to the tip of his cigarette.

“You think you can do better, do ye?” demanded Finn, tired of Sean’s constant bitching. West Roxbury born and bred, his whining accent annoyed the hell out of Finn, but he was a favorite of the Boston gangs, so he bit his tongue.

“Ah, sure now, Finn’s doing a grand job see,” said Jimmy from behind him, already three sheets to the wind, having finished his whiskey by the time they’d hit the Aylesbury pike. Jimmy turned around to look at the growling truck following them through the woods. “Better than Fergal anyhow, that boy’s all over the road like a drunken nun.”

Fergal was the youngest of the four of them, and nobody liked him. Too earnest in his desire to please, he was irritating in the way only someone who tried too hard to be liked can be irritating. Which was why Jimmy and Sean rode with Finn.

It had been a risk coming out this way, what with that poor dead girl found down at the athletics field, but the boys from Newburyport were coming tonight with the booze from Canada, so what choice did they have?

“Cheers for the support, Jimmy,” said Finn. “But in your state, I’m not sure you’re the best judge of my driving skills.”

“Yeah, shut your mouth, Jimmy,” added Sean, peering ahead as though he could penetrate the gloom. His cigarette filled the cab with smoke, but he didn’t think to offer Finn or Jimmy a puff. That was typical of Sean Cafferty, though: a man who didn’t give a rat’s ass for anyone but himself. If he weren’t so connected, Finn would have taken out his knife and gutted him right there and then.

“If ye’d let me turn on the lights I could see better,” suggested Finn.

“Don’t be an eejit, man,” said Sean, taking out his heavy .45 automatic and making sure the magazine was fully loaded. “You want to tell the world we’re here?”

“There’s no one out here but us,” said Finn. “Ain’t that the point?”

“No lights,” said Sean, and Finn shrugged, returning his attention to the road. They’d driven for nearly a mile, best he could tell, and the trees showed no sign of thinning. It looked like nary an axe nor saw had ever been taken to these trees, like they had always existed and always would. They reminded Finn of the fairy tales his mam would tell him of the Fey and the green men with thistledown hair who lived beneath the hills and stole children away in the dead of night. This was an ancient forest, one that could easily give rise to the darker kinds of fairy tales. Finn shivered, his Celtic soul alive with the possibilities of strange beings and malicious sprites making their homes within this place.

“The house should be just ahead, Finn,” said Sean, holding his cigarette close to a crumpled map he had pulled out of his long coat.

Finn nodded, already seeing the trees thinning out ahead. The road became less rutted and moonlight illuminated a wide expanse of flat ground, overgrown with tall grasses and bushes that hadn’t been trimmed back since God knows when. In the center of the clearing stood what had once been an elaborate three-story mansion, built in the Colonial style, but which had now fallen into disrepair. Vines clung to its walls, and the white paint on its wooden boards was peeling and stained with decades of neglect.

Four giant pilasters framed the entrance to the house, and the splintered wooden doors hung on sagging hinges. Starlight reflected on shards of broken glass in window frames, and a curious air of sadness hung over the place, as though the house itself mourned its faded grandeur.

Two trucks in the livery of a Newburyport bakery sat in front of the dilapidated mansion, loaded to the gunwales with wooden barrels. Half a dozen men in short jackets and flat-caps stood around the trucks. They carried a mix of rifles and pistols and were smoking and pacing, looking like prowling tigers Finn had seen at the movies. No sooner had Finn’s vehicle come into sight, than they lined up in front of the fully laden trucks.

“Careful now,” said Sean, tucking his pistol into his coat pocket. “Everyone got their iron?”

“Aye,” said Finn, snapping off the safety on his pistol, a matte black .38 revolver.

“Got me piece right here,” said Jimmy, waving his own gun.

“Put that away, you bloody idiot,” snapped Sean. “You want them to start shooting already?”

Finn pulled the truck around and hauled on the handbrake as he killed the engine.

“Nice and slow, eh boys?” said Sean, stepping down from the truck. Finn and Jimmy did likewise and Fergal joined them a second later, looking as excited to be here as he was afraid.

Sean and the leader of the Newburyport gang made a great show of friendship, but it sounded about as false as Finn’s last confession at St. Michael’s. He let Sean do the talking, and as money was exchanged, he swept his gaze over the Newburyport boys. They were a tough bunch, on edge and ready for trouble. Finn didn’t blame them. They had made the twelve mile journey from the north with a hell of a lot of whiskey imported illegally from Canada, and if they’d been caught with that much booze, it would be ten years minimum in jail. The Arkham police were notoriously strict in punishing those who broke the Volstead Act and flouted the rules on prohibition.

Finn turned his attention to the mansion, finding it sad that such a fine building had been allowed to fall into such a state of decrepitude. He’d heard it still belonged to the Billington family, but if that were true, they clearly didn’t want to have anything to do with the place. Moonlight gleamed colorfully from a window around the side of the building, and the sagging roof looked ready to collapse.

The empty windows on the attic floor gaped like screaming mouths, and moonlight picked out the few remaining shards of fang-like glass. Black gunk drooled from the broken sills, and Finn blinked as he saw something pale floating in the midst of the darkness of the easternmost window. He peered at the window and the blob withdrew, but for the briefest moment, it had looked like a head.

“Jimmy,” he whispered. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” slurred Jimmy.

“Up there in the top floor window. I swore I saw something.”

“Nah, just your imagination, Finn lad.”

Finn shook his head. “No, I definitely saw something.”

Fergal nudged him in the ribs. “I saw it, Finn.”

“You sure, Fergal? Don’t be shitting me or I’ll put me fist down your throat and tear out your lungs.”

“Aye, Finn. I swear on me mother’s life.”

That was enough for Finn, and he went over to where Sean was dealing with the Newburyport lads. Sean gave him a withering look as he approached.

“What is it ye’ll be wanting, Finn?” asked Sean.

“Thought I saw something,” he said, nodding toward the house. “Someone inside.”

Sean looked up at the windows. “Don’t be daft, man. There’s been nobody here in years.”

“Could be cops,” said Finn.

“I thought you said this place was safe,” said the bootlegger from Newburyport.

“And so it is, Harry,” said Sean, raising his hands before him in a calming gesture. “Finn’s just got an overactive imagination is all. Too many tales of leprechauns at his mam’s knee. Ain’t that right, Finn?”

“I should check, though, eh? Best to be sure.”

Sean sighed, and Finn knew the Boston lads would hear of this. Finn didn’t care. He’d rather be a foot soldier than a leader anyway.

“Fine,” said Sean at last. “If you’re so sure, take Jimmy and go look in the house, but be quick about it.”

“Like a thirsty man on Paddy’s Day,” promised Finn.

“Aye, well see that you are. These barrels aren’t gonna load themselves, y’see.”

* * *

By the time the cops got Rita back to Dorothy Upman Hall it was late and the moon glared down like a bright cat’s eye in the dark. The uniformed patrolman asked her if she wanted an escort to her room, but Rita shook her head. She saw Amanda at the door to the dorm and knew she had all the escort she needed.

Amanda came running over to her and threw her arms around Rita.

“Goodness, are you okay? I’ve been so worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” said Rita. “Can we get inside?”

“Sure, of course, sorry,” said Amanda, leading her inside the building. Rita was still wearing her running clothes, though the cops had given her a coarse woolen blanket to keep warm. They climbed the stairs to their room, and heads appeared at opened doors as word spread that Rita had returned. She saw expressions of concern, interest, and fear, like she’d brought something dark with her.

Amanda took no notice and bundled her into their room, turning to shut the door firmly behind them. Rita smiled at Amanda.

“Thanks, Mandy,” said Rita, sitting cross-legged on her bed. Mandy climbed up beside her and they sat facing one another, the enormity of what Rita had unwittingly stumbled across filling the space between them.

“You’re quite welcome, Rita. Honestly, I can’t imagine what it must have been like to find that girl out there. You poor dear. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, really,” said Rita. “I promise.”

“You sure?” said Amanda, taking her hands.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” said Rita, trying to convince herself with repetition. “It was horrible, but I’ve seen some pretty bad things in my time. I mean, this was one of the worst, but growing up in New Orleans, you see some messed up stuff.”

“Coming from Muncie, Indiana, you don’t get to see much of anything,” replied Amanda. “And for once, I’m pretty darn glad of that. I wouldn’t want to see anything as horrible as a dead girl. Even one I didn’t know. Oh! You didn’t know her did you?”

Rita shook her head. “No, never seen her before.”

“It’s just horrible,” said Amanda. “Ever since I came to Arkham I’ve had this strange feeling that, I don’t know, that something was just…off. I know that probably sounds stupid.”

“Don’t sound stupid at all,” said Rita. “I feel it, too. I felt it as soon as I stepped off the train from Boston. It’s like this place is sick and nobody knows it. Or they know it, but they don’t want to admit it. If Mama Josette was here, she’d say this town has got itself some bad mojo.”

“Who’s Mama Josette?”

“A
mambo
from New Orleans,” said Rita. Seeing Amanda’s confusion, she added, “It’s like a voodoo queen, but a good one. The
mambo
only use good magic; it’s the
bokor
who turn it to evil.”

“Magic?”

“Yeah, I know what you’re going to say, but back in Louisiana it’s as real as you and me. This whole town’s got bad mojo right down to its bones. It’s sick to its heart.”