Deader Still (14 page)

The area behind the Brothers Heron’s shop held the Oubliette and also a clutter of various-sized packing crates. Three men stood around a broken crate that reached chest height, and none of them looked happy. The balding one called Marten was there, and across from him stood two others: one was Julius, the dark-haired Penn Gillette look-alike, and the other was a man in his early twenties who looked just shy of being a total Ichabod, with the same dark hair. I thought Marten had said his name was Lanford.

Even though I might have been able to read their lips while they argued, the language they spoke was still impenetrable. My best guess was that it was probably some sort of gypsy Cant.

“Excuse me?” I heard Connor call from out in front of their wagon. “Hello?”

Marten spoke and the three of them acted as one, slipping a tarp over the broken crate before stepping into the wagon. I prayed that Connor could keep them distracted long enough, and then I darted inside the curtain toward the crates, carefully sidestepping the Oubliette. I had to see what they were so eager to hide.

As I approached the tarp, I reached in my pocket for a roll of Life Savers and began scarfing them down. I didn’t know what to expect when I read the crate, but I didn’t want to pass out only to have the gypsies find me sprawled on the floor of their booth later. I wasn’t sure how threatening Illinois gypsies could be, but Julius had looked pretty imposing, so why take chances with a guy who could probably crush my head like a rotten pumpkin?

I slipped off my gloves and lifted the tarp along one side, exposing the shattered section of the wooden crate. It looked empty, but it was too hard to tell for sure from the shadows inside of it. I moved my head closer, but all that did was block the light and make it darker inside. There was a definite odd and unpleasant smell coming from it, though. I covered my mouth and nose, and stepped back. Maybe more light getting into the box might help before I dared take a reading off it. That was when I heard the gentle scratching of claws against wood coming from somewhere behind me.

I turned to find a stack of smaller crates. The one nearest the top rocked slightly and had air holes in it. I moved my face closer, hoping to catch a glimpse through one of the holes, but I jumped back as a wild chittering rose from the crate. The rest of the crates beneath it also sprang to life, producing unique noises that bordered on sounds that I could only imagine would be found in Lovecraft’s Cthulhu mythos.

“No, wait,” Connor shouted from out in front of the booth, no doubt for my benefit. “I’m very interested in these exorcism ear candles.”

“Dammit,” I hissed.

There was no time to take a reading from the crate. The Brothers Heron would be steamrolling back through their wagon any second. I threw the tarp over the broken crate and dove for the seam of the curtain I had come through. I darted back around the corner and down along the blind side of the gypsies’ booth before slowing down to turn the next corner in my approach to where I had left Connor.

Connor stood there with Julius while the other two brothers had disappeared, no doubt to check out the commotion from the back of their booth. Connor clutched two long, hollow candles in one of his hands, reminding me a little bit of the Statue of Liberty. His eyes bored into me questioningly, and I gave the slightest shake of my head
no
in response.

“Look,” Connor said, feigning enthusiasm, “I found those exorcism ear candles you were looking for.”

“Oh,” I said, throwing my gloves back on. “Great.”

I took one from Connor and pretended to examine it, turning it this way and that. I wasn’t even sure what an exorcism ear candle was. It looked like a red corncob made out of wax with a wick sticking out of the end of it.

“Oh, no,” I said. I realized that we probably had to get out of there, and fast. “These are all wrong.” I smiled up at Julius. “Thanks, anyway.”

I put the candle down on the table and hurried off. Connor followed in my wake.

“Find anything, kid?” Connor asked.

I shook my head.

“Just a broken packing crate that smelled like an animal,” I said. “Well, more like an animal that had eaten another animal and then threw it back up. There were also a bunch more crates that contained some other creatures, but I didn’t get a chance to check out what any of them were.”

Connor sighed.

“If any of those animals can be proven to be of paranormal origin, we could get them shut down for trafficking,” Connor said, “but until we know for sure, there’s nothing we can do. We’d better talk to the Inspectre. And we need to get back down to the docks and go over them again. There’s got to be something there.”

When we approached the booth, however, and saw the grim expression on the Inspectre’s face, all thoughts of talking about the Brothers Heron or the docks left us.

“Sir?” I said as we entered the area behind the booth. “Are you okay?”

He turned to face us, his cell phone still clutched open in his hand.

“That was Dave Davidson just now,” he said, slowly folding it shut. “I need you two to check something out in Central Park.”

“Not the park,” Connor muttered, more to himself than either of us.

“What is it?” I asked.

“He didn’t want to discuss it over the phone,” the Inspectre said, “but he
did
ask for you two specifically.”

A sense of dread started to build in me, and I tried to push it aside. I had always wanted to be one of the popular kids. Just not in this way.

As we traversed Central Park’s Great Lawn, I prayed we weren’t headed for another crime scene. Connor looked unusually nervous. Whenever my mentor started looking a bit mental around the edges, I started to worry. But maybe he was just pissy about me ordering him around back at the gypsy booth. He was generally the calm, cool, and collected one, thanks to all those Bogart movies he loved. Right now he looked more Peter Lorre than Bogie.

“You okay?” I asked.

Connor’s head twitched in my direction for a second, but he kept walking, his eyes darting around.

“I’m fine, kid,” he said. “This place just gives me the creeps.”

I looked around. It was a gorgeous, sunshiny day. Young couples were lying out on blankets, kids were throwing Frisbees, and the more health conscious were busy biking or Rollerblading.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s, umm … terrifying.”

Connor scoffed. “Didn’t the Inspectre make you read
Trail of Breadcrumbs: Into the Woods and Beyond
yet?”

I shook my head.

Connor looked cheesed off. “Probably the budget cuts … Anyway, Central Park is ranked as one of the most dangerous places in our line of work.”

“Really?”

“This place is old,” Connor said, “though not as old as you’d expect. We’re talking only back to the 1850s. Most of this was landscaped, but a lot of the area was residential. There was a lot of life and humanity here before it became a wilderness, and now it’s been taken over by nature. That type of change just invites all types of Extraordinary Affairs. Man-made or not, these woods call out to all manner of creatures.”

It was odd to think of Central Park having been fabricated like that. I had always assumed that it had been an untamed part of the city that had been set aside as some sort of nature preserve.

We rounded a bend in the path, following a paved section of road that led toward a set of stone stairs. Several police officers were blocking the way, but when we flashed our IDs, they let us up the stairs without a word. At the top was a small circle of benches about one hundred feet across, and at the center of it stood a tall stone spire that rose at least eighty feet. Standing by its base, waiting for us, stood Dave Davidson. At his feet was a body covered by a sheet.

“Things must be slow at City Hall if they can afford to keep you hanging around here waiting for us,” Connor said, giving him a polite nod.

Davidson smiled, all polish.

“Believe me, they can afford to keep me standing here when things of this nature keep turning up,” he said. He motioned for us to come closer. Davidson reached down and pulled back the sheet. On the ground was the body of a man in his early forties with a typical wreath of baldness going on. He wore running shorts, track shoes, and a T-shirt that read “Sherlock Ohms.” Beneath him a small pool of blood coated the bricks and stones.

“ ‘Sherlock Ohms’ … ?” I asked.

“We believe it’s some sort of electrical joke,” Davidson said. “We think he’s a scientist. Name’s Dr. Richard Kolb.”

“Or a yoga nerd,” Connor suggested.

“Let’s compromise,” I said, “and go with science nerd.”

Our usual manner of bantering away our discomfort wasn’t working, so the three of us stood in silence, taking in the scene for a few moments.

“People get killed in the park all the time,” Connor said by way of dismissal, sounding rather heartless. “What makes this guy so special?”

Davidson reached down and turned the dead man’s head, revealing a savage tear wound to his neck. “As you can see,” he said, “there’s a little bit of blood around the bite mark, but that’s about all that’s left of it.” Davidson stepped back. “The coroner’s already been by and said he’s drained. Feel free to take a closer look.”

Connor and I stepped to either side of the body. Already I was thinking about the people on the boat. I looked at Connor.

He placed his pinkie and index finger against his mouth, making fangs with them.

“The vamps from the dock by the Javits Center,” I continued. “Great. While we wait on the goddamned paperwork to go through, more people are dying.”

Connor turned from the body and was already stepping away as Davidson laid the cloth back down over the dead jogger. I stood.

“We’re putting it through as fast as we can,” Davidson reassured, but I was already getting pissed and couldn’t hold back my frustration.

“How many people are going to have to die before City Hall picks up the pace? Don’t you have any feelings?”

Davidson held his hands up disarmingly.

“I’m just a political liaison. It’s not in my job description that I have to have feelings. Sorry.”

He was so cold about it all that I wanted to pull my bat on him. I turned to Connor, who was looking back down the stairs and off into the park.

“Do something,” I said. “Say something.”

“Sure, I’ll say something,” he said, distracted by whatever was catching his eye. “You want to get some answers? Turn around and take a look.”

I did, and started scanning the park.

Connor specialized in dealing with ghosts, so that was what I was looking for, but in broad daylight it was near impossible for me. I didn’t notice anything unusual, and I threw up my arms in frustration.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” I said. “I don’t have your power. I don’t do your thing …”

“Just shut up, kid,” Connor said. He raised his arm and pointed off to a specific section of the park. “Shut up and concentrate.”

I gave up trying to argue with him and stared down the trajectory of his finger, putting more effort into really observing the crowd.

There were people everywhere, very few of them paying attention to us or to Davidson’s regular cops nearby. Two couples were walking hand in hand, three Rollerbladers, a line of passing bicyclists, and one jogger.

Bald and wearing a “Sherlock Ohms” shirt. It was the ghost of Dr. Richard Kolb.

“Son of a bitch,” I marveled, but before I could get anything else out, Connor shoved past me, jumping down the stairs. I fell in behind him, the cops scattering as the two of us pushed past them all.

By the time Connor and I hit the middle of the Great Lawn, I was a mess, winded and already aching in my calf muscles. I must have run through at least seven different picnic setups, angering the people trying to have a pleasant afternoon in the park.

“Why couldn’t he have been some big old fat guy?” I shouted ahead to Connor, who was still sprinting like the dickens after our jogger. My foot came down in a wicker picnic basket and I heard a plastic crunch.

“Sorry!”

“Don’t let it get away, kid,” Connor shouted back to me, and poured on the steam. I wasn’t about to be shown up, and despite my aches and pains, I started running to catch up, gaining on Connor little by little. We were just about at the crosstown road that connected Eighty-sixth Street on both sides of the park when I overtook him. I was wheezing by this point, but I kept pushing myself. The jogger dashed down the embankment and out onto the two-lane road without a glance either way, and although the cars passing by almost hit him, not one of them sounded a horn or moved to swerve. They clearly didn’t see him, and I remembered that I hadn’t seen him either, until Connor had pointed him out to me.