The Adventures of Gravedigger (12 page)

Gravedigger jerked away from the Horseman, the
images of the past fading as quickly as they had come. Mortimer Quinn had been
a Gravedigger! The truth of that was almost overwhelming… It confirmed the
existence of The Voice, of Josef’s stated history about the continual nature of
the role.

And it implied that Josef was not the only one to
successfully redeem his soul, for Mortimer Quinn had written his book in 1800,
four years after his spiritual deadline.

“Katrina’s father was a member of The Sons or
Daughters,” The Horseman said. “I was dispatched to deal with his enemies…
first Hale, then Brom. Finally, he sent me against his own daughter, who had
turned against him.”

“But Quinn defeated you.”

“Only for a time. I cannot be permanently beaten.
Not even death can hold me.”

Gravedigger danced forward, wielding her blades
expertly. She delivered a series of deep cuts that would have incapacitated any
normal man… but the Horseman merely stood his ground.

His response was as quick as lightning. He stabbed
at her with his sword and the blade would have pierced her stomach if it hadn’t
been for a perfectly timed throw, one that sent a lawyer’s briefcase hurtling
between the Horseman and Gravedigger.

Both combatants turned towards the door, where Li
was standing there with a grin on her face. She looked like a little girl who
had just won first prize in a contest of some sort.

“Yes!” Li screamed. “I did it!”

“Get out of here!” Charity warned, blocking
another swipe of the Horseman’s blade.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her!” Cedric
said, moving into view. He tugged at Li’s arm but was unable to contain her.

“You go!” Li shouted at Cedric. “I have work to
do!”

Gravedigger sighed, parrying another thrust. She
loved Li but the girl was going to get herself killed one of these days. Still…
she had to give her credit for the assist.

The Headless Horseman broke off his assault as Li
hefted a chair and tossed it at him. It bounced off his shoulder but the
distraction was enough for Gravedigger to take advantage. She raised both her
knifes and jumped into the air. Again, she brought the blades down but this
time, she went straight for the ruined stump where the Horseman’s head had once
been. The blades bit deep and jets of the inky-black blood spurted from the
wound.

For the first time, the Horseman thrashed about in
obvious pain. His ghostly voice quavered and he threw all his weight against
Gravedigger, knocking her aside. Then, with both knives still embedded in his
body, he turned and ran towards the third-floor window. He crashed through,
tumbling out onto the slanted roof and knocking aside shingles as he fell. He
catapulted off the edge of the roof and landed beside his steed. The horse was
pawing at the ground, smoke drifting from its flared nostrils. It was black as
midnight, with glowing red eyes.

The Horseman reached up and yanked Gravedigger’s
knives from his body, tossing them aside. He then sheathed his sword and
climbed into the saddle.

Gravedigger watched him from the window, his dark
form vanishing in the night.

“Aren’t you going after him?” Li asked.

“To what end? I just figured out how to hurt him…
but I still don’t have a clue how to stop him.” Gravedigger turned from the
window and looked around the room. Body parts and blood had painted the scene
in shades of horror.

Cedric was standing there, surprisingly calm.
Charity wondered if he was in shock. Noticing her stare, he asked, “So… Is
anyone going to tell me what the hell just happened?”

***

Mitchell applied gauze to Charity’s wounds,
ignoring the way she hissed in pain. “I hate seeing you like this, luv.”

“Like what?” she asked, pulling her shirt back
into place. She was used to being half-naked in front of Mitchell by now but
she tried to maintain modesty, for his sake more than hers.

“Angry at yourself.” Mitchell sat back and
regarded her. He was wearing a black shirt and a pair of pressed slacks. They
were seated together in what passed as a first aid station in their shared
home. It was a room that had seen altogether too much use in recent months.
“You did the best you could.”

Charity brushed a strand of dark hair out of her
face. Mitchell was struck again by how beautiful she was. It seemed wrong that
she wasn’t being wooed by scores of handsome men – instead, she was risking
life and limb on a nightly basis. “I screwed up. Again. I only saved one
person’s life – one! Everybody else died.”

“If Max Hendry had succeeded, he’d be young again
and he’d have The Headless Horseman at his beck and call. You prevented that.”

“And now the Horseman is out there in Sovereign…
without anyone to reign him in.”

“So you’ll figure out a way to stop him.” Mitchell
reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. He gave it a paternal squeeze
and added, “Fighting bad guys isn’t all you need to be doing, though. You’re
supposed to become a better person, remember? That means making friends,
forming a family.”

“How am I supposed to do that when everybody close
to me is at risk?”

“Maybe that’s something you have to figure out.”
Mitchell stood up and began putting away some of the medical tape and gauze
that he’d been using. “Li and Cedric are waiting for you downstairs.”

Charity grinned. “I’ve got to stop collecting
helpers. It’s starting to get crowded around here – though I guess it’s good
that Cedric has inherited Hendry Hall.”

“Cedric wants to help,” Mitchell said.

“He wants to get into Li’s knickers,” Charity said
with a laugh.

Mitchell smiled in return. “I like it when you do
that. You should try it more often.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Laughing.”

Charity rose and stretched her back. She avoided
looking Mitchell in the eye as she said, “You’re a good friend to me, Mitchell.
I know I don’t say that often enough. If you hadn’t been around after Josef
died, I’m not sure what I would have done with myself.”

“I’m glad to be here, luv.”

The two of them descended the stairs, arm-in-arm.
They found Li and Cedric in the study, enjoying drinks and laughing over some
joke that Cedric had just told.

Li looked meaningfully at Cedric before turning
her eyes towards Charity. She gave a conspiratorial wink that Charity knew all
too well. Charity almost felt sorry for Mr. Hendry – he had no idea what he was
getting himself into with this flirtation.

Charity stepped away from Mitchell and crossed her
arms over her chest. “Both of you are in?”

“Of course!” Li replied, looking shocked that the
question even had to be asked.

Cedric seemed less assured but his response was
just as definitive. “I think this world is a lot stranger than I ever
suspected… and I want to do my part to make it a little safer.”

Charity nodded slowly. She then clasped her hands
together in front of her and said, “Then let’s do this. Mitchell, dig out the
newspaper clippings from the past week.”

“Already done,” he replied, plucking up a folder
off a nearby table. Handing it to Charity, he said, “I’ve taken the liberty of
circling several articles that might be of interest.”

Charity opened the collection and noticed that
there was a rapist active in Chinatown, a mobster had been gunned down in front
of the Deja Hotel and a woman was wanted for questioning by the police, with
regards to the poisoning of her husband.

“Lots of people have dug their own graves, from the
looks of this,” Charity whispered. A slow smile spread across her lips. “It’s
time to throw on the dirt.”

The assembled mobsters shifted uncomfortably.
Sovereign City’s underworld had always been a strange thing, governed
frequently by madman who bore silly names or outlandish attire. The Monster,
Doctor Satan and The Burning Skull were all figures who had populated meetings
like this one but it never got easier to take.

Morris Jones was known to most of his cronies as
Dash, so named because he had some of the fleetest feet in Sovereign. It was
said that if a job went sour, Dash was probably the only one guaranteed to get
off scot free – no one, not Lazarus Gray or Fortune McCall – had ever managed
to put his mitts around him.

Dash anxiously chewed on a toothpick, his right
foot tapping a staccato beat on the floor. Standing before the group, which
easily numbered three dozen of the roughest gangsters in the city, were two
figures that looked like they’d stepped right out of one of those cheesy pulp
novels that Dash devoured like fried chicken.

One of them was the Headless Horseman, dressed in
a set of Revolutionary-era clothes. The Horseman’s sword hung at his hip and a
gloved hand rested atop the hilt. The fact that the Horseman had no head was
terrifying, of course, but Dash thought the smell that drifted from the man’s
wound was far worse.

The other figure wore a hood and robes. His arms
looked emaciated but it was the bits of face that occasionally showed that was
truly frightening. His cheeks were sunken and his long beard was scraggly. The
deep pits of his eyes shone with madness and his teeth were yellowed and
crooked. This was Charon, who was just as frequently known as the Ferryman of
Death. Dash knew the origins of the name, having been a voracious reader as a
child. In fact, though he’d never admit it to his peers, he knew portions of
Virgil’s description by heart:

There Charon stands, who rules the dreary coast
-

A sordid god: down from his hairy chin

A length of beard descends, uncombed, unclean;

His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire;

A girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene
attire.

Dash stared at the Horseman, feeling uneasy. It
was strange how the guy had no head… It had to be a trick of some kind, but he
was damned if he knew how the Horseman pulled it off.

Charon spoke up, interrupting Dash’s train of
thought. The man had a calm, if somewhat aged, voice. “Gentlemen, thank you for
answering my summons. I know that many of you are loyal to The Monster or the
other crime lords in the city and that you do not want to offend them. Let me
assure you that nothing we discuss tonight should do that.”

Dash didn’t think that was very likely but he
didn’t speak up. The Monster, in particular, was a stickler when it came to
matters of trust. If he thought you were on the take from another mobster or,
heaven forbid, the cops, he’d plug you full of lead and drop you off the pier.

“What I am proposing is that each of you act as a
clearinghouse of information on my behalf. I have certain things that I want to
keep tabs on – and if you come across anything related to those subjects, you
pass them on to me and no one else. In return, I will pay you handsomely.”

Dash saw a number of people lean forward with
interest. He retained his cool, though. He wasn’t getting excited about any
deal until he knew what the subjects were – and how much he’d get paid for the
info.

“I am interested in anyone selling objects of
occult power,” Charon continued. “If you hear of something, no matter how
ludicrous it sounds, you come to me. If it bears fruit, you will receive a
bonus. I am also interested in keeping tabs on the various vigilantes in the
city: Lazarus Gray, Fortune McCall, The Dark Gentleman, Doc Daye, Gravedigger,
etc. If you hear that they’re out of town, you pass it on to me. If you hear
that they’re adding new members to their ranks, I want to know. It’s that
simple.”

“Whatcha gonna do with that information?” Lefty
Malone asked. Lefty had lost his hand during a botched robbery a few years ago.

“I plan to carve out an empire for myself in this
city,” Charon answered. “But it’s not one based upon monetary concerns like
most. I want to own men’s souls.” The ferryman laughed but no one joined in.
“Let me worry about such things – for you, it’s simply a matter of getting
paid.”

“What’s his story?” Dash asked, finally finding
his voice. He gestured towards the Horseman.

“He’s exactly what he appears to be – he’s the
Headless Horseman of legend.”

“So if you’ve got some kinda spook on your side,
what do you need us for? Can’t you use your magic powers to find out all this
stuff?”

“As I said, there is no reason for you to concern
yourself with the details.” Charon chuckled again, a merciless sound that made
many in the room shift uncomfortably.

The meeting ended soon after, with only a few of
the other criminals asking for mundane details or clarifications. People could
reach Charon by leaving a message at the front desks of any of a half dozen
squalid hotels – he had people who would receive them.

Dash stepped out into the chill night air and lit
a cigarette. He watched as his fellow crooks scattered to their cars or took
off down dark alleyways. He lived not far from here, in a run-down little
apartment building. The place housed more rats than people, but Dash still
considered it home. So home isn’t used twice

He still wasn’t sure what to make of Charon’s
deal. It seemed simple enough but he didn’t trust the Ferryman or his Horseman…
and anything that led to dealings with Lazarus Gray or the other vigilantes
simply wasn’t a smart move for a man who liked breathing.

He was deep in thought when he approached his
apartment building. He nodded at a pretty young Chink who was standing near the
steps. She must be new, he mused, because he didn’t recognize her as being one
of the usual girls who worked the block. If he hadn’t been so low on funds, he
would have invited her up to his place, but it had been awhile between jobs and
he barely had enough to cover the rent.

Regretfully, he passed her by and went on inside.
He unlocked his door and stepped through, his hand reaching out to find the
light switch. A strong hand wrapped around his wrist and yanked him close, a
sharp blade suddenly pressing hard against his throat.

The door was kicked shut behind him, leaving him
in total darkness.

“Who is this?” he hissed in fear. He dropped his
cigarette and considered fighting back… but the touch of cold steel against his
skin made him pause.

A match was struck and a second later, Mitchell
lit a candle. He was facing Dash and he looked particularly menacing in the dim
light. “Don’t move,” he warned.

Mitchell came towards him and began binding Dash’s
hands and feet with strong wire. Once Dash was bound, the knife vanished from
the criminal’s throat.

Mitchell dragged the hobbled man over to a chair
and pushed him down into it. Dash could now see whom it was that had held him
at knifepoint. It was a dame, one outfitted in a red and black outfit that
accentuated her athletic physique. The woman’s face was hidden beneath mask and
hood.

“I’m Gravedigger,” she said, sheathing the curved
knife that she had been holding. “Tell me what Charon said to you.”

Dash swallowed hard. Gravedigger was the worst of
Sovereign’s vigilantes – Lazarus Gray or The Dark Gentleman would usually cart
you off to jail but this woman was known for gutting her prey. “I don’t work
for him,” he stammered. If he was out in the open, he would have taken off by
now, hobbled or not. Nobody could match his speed, he was sure of that.

“Didn’t say you did,” Gravedigger answered, moving
closer. She grabbed a wooden chair and set it in front of Dash. Straddling the
chair so that she was leaning over the back, she asked, “Now… what did he say?”

“He just asked us to send word to him if we heard
about any black magic stuff being sold in the city… and to keep tabs on the
comings and goings of people like you. He said we could drop off the info at a
bunch of different hotels, like the Clarion or the Nipper.”

“People like me?”

“Yeah, you know… the cloak and dagger crowd.”

“Anything else?”

“He just said that he’d pay us for the info… and
then he said that he wasn’t out to make a bunch of cash for himself. He said he
wanted to own people’s souls.”

“Did you believe him?”

“About what?”

“About not being interested in money.”

Dash looked at her like she was nuts. “Of course
not! Everybody needs dough! The whole mystic bit is just a gimmick… same with
the Horseman. He can’t be real.”

Gravedigger’s hand snatched out, grabbing a
handful of Dash’s hair and yanking hard. Ignoring his cry of pain, she asked,
“The Headless Horseman was there?”

“Yeah, there was a guy there who was pretending to
be him! Even had some trick set up so it looked like he didn’t have any head at
all… whatever effects he was using stank to high heaven, though!”

Gravedigger and Mitchell exchanged a meaningful
look before she released Dash’s hair. Mitchell walked to the door and started
to step out, pausing only long enough to ask, “Are you going to need me for any
of the clean-up?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got this.” Gravedigger waited
until he was gone and then she drew a long sword out of its scabbard. The highly
polished blade gleamed in the candlelight.

“What are you doing to do?” Dash asked, a bead of
sweat running down his forehead. Even as he voiced the question, he felt
stupid… What else was she going to do with a sword? He suddenly thought about
his mother, dead for nearly twenty years. He remembered the look of
disappointment in her eyes when she’d first seen him questioned by the police.

“I thought about letting you go,” Gravedigger
said. “I thought about recruiting you to be one of my agents, too. But over the
course of my research into your background, I came across a young woman named
Sarah Truesdale. Do you remember her?”

Dash did, though he didn’t say so.

Gravedigger continued, taking his silence as
affirmation. “She was seventeen years old and two days away from leaving
Sovereign so she could attend college. But you attacked her in her own bedroom,
raping her for nearly three hours. Then you got worried that she’d be able to
identify you… so you poured bleach into her eyes, blinding her.”

“I was just a kid. I was barely twenty, myself! I
haven’t forced myself on another woman in all those years since then!” Dash
felt himself beginning to cry. He wished he could run… he was always running,
until now. “I’m nothing but a nickel-and-dime lowlife now! I ain’t a rapist!”

“Not anymore, you mean?”

“Right! I felt so bad about that girl that I
haven’t done anything like it since!”

Gravedigger slowly brought her sword to Dash’s
throat. “But you did it once and now she’s got to live with that for the rest
of her life. How is it fair that you get to start over and she doesn’t?”

“If you cut my head off,” he pleaded, “You’re
nothing but a murderer! And that’s worse than a rapist!”

“I’m not going to murder you,” Gravedigger said,
causing Dash to swallow in relief.

“You’re not?”

“No. You killed yourself a long time ago. The
second you poured bleach into that poor girl’s eyes. All I’m doing is shoveling
the dirt on your grave.”

“No!” Dash screamed, but it was too late. The
sword whipped through the air, causing a gust of wind that extinguished the
candle.

The room was plunged into darkness.

***

Mitchell was waiting behind the wheel when Charity
slid into the backseat of their car. She had changed out of her uniform in
Dash’s apartment, stuffing her gear into an oversized duffel bag. “Where’s Li?”
she asked.

“She decided to take a cab back to Chinatown. She
has a date tonight.”

Charity ran a hand through her hair, pursing her
lips. “Anybody I know?”

“She didn’t say.” Mitchell pulled out into
traffic, glanced in the rearview mirror. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” Charity glanced out the window and sighed.
She could feel Mitchell’s gaze upon her. “I don’t mind the killing anymore. You
get used to it.”

“You didn’t kill him,” Mitchell began but stopped
when Charity held up a hand.

“I know. I said that to him, too.”

Mitchell nodded and turned his eyes back to the
road. “He was trash.”

“I’m more concerned with the Horseman. No
appearances or murders since that night at Hendry Hall… and now he pops up
again, working as a guy’s enforcer? Seems strange.”

“That’s all he ever was – a killer who served
others,” Mitchell pointed out. “Whether it was for the army or for the Sons or
Daughters, he takes orders. It doesn’t surprise me that he’d eventually seek
out somebody to call the shots.”

“At least we know that he’s using some of the
skuzzier hotels for his pick-up points. I’ll have somebody watching the Clarion
and the Nipper to see if we can catch one of his goons and then follow them.”

“Back to the house?” Mitchell asked, though he
knew what the answer would be.

“Let’s go by the cemetery,” she said, so low that
he almost couldn’t hear her.

“It’s morbid the way you visit your own grave.”

“Not as morbid as the fact that I
have
a
grave.”

“Touché, luv.”

***

The man known as Charon hung his hooded robe in
the closet and then moved over to a fully stocked bar. He was in one of the
most expensive penthouses in the city, overlooking the heart of downtown. If
the goons from the underworld meeting had seen him, not a one of them would
have recognized him. Gone was the false beard that he wore in their midst and
the removal of makeup gave his face a less gaunt appearance.