Judgment Night [BUREAU 13 Book One] (18 page)

The priest slung the quiver over a shoulder. “Ready?"

"Nothing to it, but to do it.” Raising her bracelet, she muttered a word and faded from view in the manner of a departing ghost. Dimly, we could perceive the vague outline of her body step round the blast crater and phase into the wall.

A slow minute passed, and a transparent Mindy lurched out and fell to the ground gasping for breath.

We rushed to her and I cradled the solidifying woman in my arms. “Geez, what happened, kid?"

"The wall resisted me,” Mindy panted, color flowing back into her face. “Waves of pressure crashing against me. I dug in my heels and kept going, but the pounding constantly increased until I was pushed out."

George popped a stick of gum from a MRE pack into his mouth. “What now, fearless leader?” he chewed.

Scowling, I sighed. “We need a hand."

The rest looked at me blankly, but Richard got the idea.

"A hand from an inhabitant of the island,” he explained. “We warm it to body temperature and place it against the scanner. With any luck, we're in."

"Check."

Jessica made a face. “Grisly, but effective."

"Its worked before."

Bending over, Father Donaher helped Mindy to her feet. “What are we supposed to do, circle about looking for another way in, or go search for a graveyard?” he asked, restoring the quiver and bow to their owner. The martial artist tightly held the items as if drawing strength from the weapons.

A graveyard was a swell idea, but since we didn't know for sure where one was, the choice was easy. On a coin flip, we went to the right. The featureless wall moved by with monotonous regularity and an hour later, we reached the rear of the city and paydirt. Only a short distance from the wall was a dense row of trees, behind which was an open area all too familiar to this crew.

"Graveyard!” Mindy cried out in triumphant. “Yahoo!"

Promptly, George stuffed a cookie into her mouth. A master of stealth Ms. Jennings was not. She took the indignity with grace, and chewed before swallowing.

Peeking through the bushes, I was delighted to find the graveyard was not domed or even encircled, but just sat there easily accessible. Only a low stone wall, barely a meter high, ringed the place and the front gate was missing.

Using binoculars, I scanned inside the fence. Filling the middle area were endless rows of simple tombstones, all exactly identical, and in each corner of the cemetery was an ornate stone building, no windows, one door. Mausoleums, without a doubt.

However, off to the right of the place was a huge earthen pile dotted with the remnants of busted wooden wheels, broken glass, rusty wire, strips of cloth and general assorted lumps. A garbage dump? They buried their dead alongside a garbage dump?

Either these people had a strange sense of propriety, or else just didn't care where they were buried. It also indicated a rich civilization. Poor societies do not have garbage. Can't afford the waste. Poverty is what truly invented recycling.

Spreading out, the group used what natural cover there was as we advanced upon the place. Once inside, the team spread out along the gravel paths, habit making us avoid treading on the graves themselves. Ya never know, ya know? Hardly any dust was present here, if that signified anything. In front of us, the mountain range lifted to the cloud, the sheer bulk of it hiding the cliff that rimmed this weird island. Rising like a knife thrust from the center was the main, snow capped peak, towering above the others as a king. Was it tall enough for snow?

Calling a halt, I stooped and tried reading the inscription on a tombstone. But the ancient writing, if it existed, was beyond deciphering. “Rich, try talking to one of these, will you?"

Fingering a complex gesture, the mage rapped the tombstone with his staff making it ring softly like a bell. “Awake,” he ordered in a Voice Of Command. “Speak to me of this place.” A faint growling sounded from the marker that quickly faded away.

"Blast. Sorry, Ed,” he apologized. “This rock is too old. Poor thing is senile."

The rock was senile? I just hate it when he says things like that. Always makes my head hurt.

Just then, a sharp whistle called for our attention and leaving the stone dead, we hurried over to where Donaher and Jessica stood waiting impatiently for us.

Reaching the middle of the graveyard, I noted the graves ended a bare circle, some fifty meters diameter. Scattered about on the hard ground were dozens, hundreds, of wooden crosses. Not small grave markers, but human-sized gallows, the beams scarred with numerous nail holes and the wood stained dark by some dripping fluid.

"Dear gods,” Richard breathed.

"My feelings in the singular,” Father Donaher said, removing the tiny silver crucifix that dangled from his belt and placing it around his neck.

In the hub of this hellish wheel was a glazed pit in whose charred center lay four blackened chains, the thick links ending with heavy cuffs. A crematorium was the first thing that came to mind, but one where you had to chain the corpse down?

"Alive,” Mindy said, her hand twisting on the braided handle of her sheathed sword. “The bastards burned them alive."

"Could have been executing criminals,” George offered, rubbing his unshaven chin to the sound of sandpaper.

"Jess?” I asked.

Hugging herself, Jessica could only shake her head no. Poor kid was probably near sensory overload from the amassed negative vibrations of the people who died on this spot. I decided to keep a close watch on our telepath.

Brushing a loose strand of hair under my cap, I saw my wristwatch. “Come on, time's wasting and we need a hand."

George flipped out an entrenching tool. “Dig we must."

"Anybody buried in the ground is long destroyed by worms,” Father Donaher stated. “The only hope is a mausoleum."

"Okay. Which?” Mindy asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes,” Richard said, his gaze shifting back and forth across the landscape. “I can feel that it does."

We waited. Silently, Jess reached out to point a finger at a building apparently no different from any other. That was the one we headed for.

The door to the mausoleum was similar to a beach bum, bronze and simple. I could have picked the lock in my sleep. Cracking the portal, the air that gushed out tasted stale and a bit musty, but without any of the telltale bitter traces of archeology's arch-enemy, methane. This close to a dump, that could be a real danger.

Standing in the rectangle of sunlight, I could see a nearby iron wall bracket for holding torches, sans any torches. Oh well. Twisting the lens on my flashlight to its widest aperture, the bright beam illuminated the vast expanse of the dim room; floor, walls and ceiling made of seamless flecked stone. Seamless. Wonder how they did that trick?

"Clear,” I announced.

In brisk order, the rest of the team followed inside. The last to enter, George put an unbreakable Bureau pocket comb in the jamb and let the door close partially.

Except for us, the place was empty, the only thing of interest was the rear wall neatly lined with metal plates. Coffin niche covers. Four by twenty five, an even hundred. The place more resembled a morgue than a mausoleum. We turned our attention to the niches. Donaher took guard by the door. Desecrating graves was a bit beyond the call of duty for a priest.

Getting in was easier than expected. The wall plates were held in place by four bolts, easily removable. The coffin in the niche slid out on grease caked rollers. But it took three of us, each using a small crowbar, to remove the lid. Centuries underwater had sealed the coffin tight. Success came with the sound of splintering wood and the lid crashed to the floor.

Laying inside was a human skeleton, its broken fingers embedded in the wooded lid, stained shavings hanging in mute testimony of the occupants last frantic struggle. Underneath the poor unfortunate was the cracked bones of who-knows how many others. Why the casket had been so easy to breach was now explained. Somebody used it over and over again. This wasn't a graveyard, or a place of execution, but a torture chamber. PIs are by nature peaceful fellows, but I was beginning to think a brisk radioactive bath was just what this stinking rat hole needed. Being buried alive. It was my secret nightmare.

"Father!” I called.

At once, Donaher was nearby, his shotgun searching for danger. “Trouble?” he asked.

"Yes and no. Can you lay an entire building full of dead folks to rest?"

He blinked. “At the same time?"

I nodded.

"Certainly. But why?"

We explained and as he glanced into the coffin, his face took on an expression of such unbridled fury that I nearly felt pity for the people who did this abomination. Nearly.

As the only other Catholic in the group, I got to play altar boy for the ceremony. Donning the purple sash of his church, Donaher read a brief ecumenical ceremony from his pocket bible, the words sounding large and important in the gloomy still. When he finished, we chorused amen. Instantly, a thumping could be heard, a banging within the mausoleum walls. Oh crap.

Rapidly, the pounding built until the building shook and we fought to stay erect. The bolts holding on the wall plates rattled free and rained to the floor. Then the plates dropped and beams of blinding light erupted from within the coffins. There was no time to head for the door. I only hoped what we had accidentally unleashed was benign, or killable. An explosion of wind roared from the niches to batter us backwards and whip our clothes with stinging force. But not Donaher. He alone stood calm and unruffled in a hurricane of screaming wind. Violently, the door to the outside slammed open, and the tempest of force and noise faded into the distance.

In the ensuing still, the bronze door slowly closed.

"What the hell was that?” I asked, my voice sounding incredibly loud in the sudden silence.

"Ghosts,” George said in a tone that made me pivot in a fighting crouch.

Floating above the coffin was a young woman. A vision in white, the lovely apparition was only a glowing torso, the long folds of her flowing gown fluttering where her legs should be, the atmosphere now scented with the honey sweet smell of fresh ectoplasm.

Nobody was frightened. A ghost was no big deal. We had one in the cellar of our apartment building that regularly stole the sports section out of the newspaper and ordered out for pizza.

"Beware” she spoke in a hushed whisper, the words echoing slightly.

In my opinion, a warning was a bad way to start a conversation. Of course, we could understand her, despite that fact she had died eons before English was developed. Ghost are strange that way. Anybody they talk to hears them in the listener's native tongue. I always got mine in Spanish and George in French, even though he barely spoke the language. Born in Paris, when he was two years old his folks moved to Ohio. Drove him crazy. He spent two months learning French so he could speak to the dead. Welcome to the Bureau.

"Beware of what, my child?” Father Donaher asked gently.

She drifted closer to him, the tendrils of her flowing garment moving without hindrance through the coffin. “The masters..."

We had already deduced a slave culture here, so this was hardly news.

"Free lady,” I said oozing charm. “What transpired here?"

Either she didn't hear me, or didn't want to tell me, so Donaher repeated the question.

She gave a ghostly sigh. “One dark night ... while they slept ... we stole their magic,” she spoke, her gaze lost in memory. “And ordered the sky to sink the land ... we succeeded ... and yet failed ... for our masters are not dead, only sleeping ... even now they struggle to waken ... to once more taint the world ... with their reign of blood and pain..."

Basked in the unearthly illumination, Father Donaher asked, “Child, what must we do?"

A transparent hand caressed his unflinching cheek. “Stop them if you can,” the spirit whispered. “Stop the island from rising..."

"How?” I asked impatiently. Damn long-winded ghosts never get to the point.

"How?” Donaher repeated.

But she was starting to fade, her time on earth finished. “...to the north is a tunnel ... look for the broken statue..."

"The broken statue of what?"

As if to implore us, the vanishing woman raised her hands. “Find the new magic ... steal it ... destroy it ... An Lan-dus must not rise...!"

Then in a flicker of light, the room darkened and the ghostly image was gone.

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It was an odd pronunciation, but we still knew what she meant.

"Ann Landis?” George asked, scratching his head. “Wasn't she a movie actress from 1960?"

I turned to Mindy. “You're closer, you hit him."

Smack!

"She meant Atlantis, knucklehead,” Father Donaher explained, removing the purple sash from his neck, neatly rolling it and placing the religious accouterment into his pack.

"Oh,” George said. “I thought the island-state was supposed to be in the Mediterranean Sea, over by Greece."

"So it moved,” Mindy snorted rudely. “Big deal."

Richard snapped his fingers. “Hey, didn't that guy on the beach have a Greek dictionary?"

Without a word, Father Donaher produced the volume from his jacket pocket. Thumbing through the volume showed it was not modern day Greek, but in Hellenic. Ancient Greek.

"How did they know?” Donaher mused.

The reason hit me like a punch in the spleen. “They're the new source of magic!"

After so many years of trying, Satan Department had finally found a way to conqueror the world and destroy the Bureau. The details could be worked out later, at the moment all that mattered was we made damn sure they failed. Unfortunately, everybody in the place was bare bones, no hands to borrow. Our only course of action was to try this mysterious tunnel.

I dug a compass from my equipment belt. North was towards the garbage dump. Best place for a broken statue.

"Double time,” I snapped. “Five meter spread. I'm on point, Richard take the rear."

Leaving the cemetery, we moved through the line of trees to the far side of the dump. There we found something else not shown on the map in the pavilion, a sort of military encampment.