Stones Unturned (12 page)

Clay watched him, thinking how strange it was that a ghost should be so haunted by the past. It occurred to him that perhaps the spirits of the dead were the most haunted creatures of all.

"Did you build the crypt?" he asked.

Graves turned, sunlight streaming through his translucent form. "No. Again, the Williamses. My mother passed shortly after Peter went to war. When they realized that the public cemetery in Swansea was segregated, they had this crypt built here for my family.

"For servants, you understand. And colored servants, to boot. They were before their time. Sometimes I think my father underestimated them. In fact, I'm sure he did. They left their money to me, after all. I'm quite certain the white society in Connecticut was scandalized."

Clay watched him silently for a moment, then walked over and stood beside him. "Your father must have been very proud of you."

The ghost nodded, his expression wistful. "He was. I took care of him until he passed. He died sitting in a theater watching Charlie Chaplin in
City Lights
. One moment I heard him laughing, and then everyone else laughed and it was too quiet next to me. I looked over and he'd gone. Very peaceful."

Clay could see the picture in his mind of Graves's father, a dead man, still smiling, cast in the silver glow of the movie screen, sitting in a theater filled with laughing people. Graves himself was dead and now, more than three-quarters of a century later, it seemed strange to offer his condolences.

The ghost saved him from having to say anything.

"Open it."

Clay blinked and looked at him. "Just like that?"

With one spectral hand he reached out and traced his fingers along the iron door, though he could not have felt it. The ghost could easily have passed right through on his own, but Clay understood that he did not want to do so alone.

"I've waited long enough," Graves said. "Open it."

Clay didn't need to shift his shape to have inhuman strength. He gripped the handle of the iron door and twisted. Metal shrieked, and something snapped in the lock, and he pulled. The hinges had weakened over the years, and the door scraped the ground as it opened. A sound like the gasp of relieved spirits rushing out to the daylight came from within, and the sunshine flooded the crypt.

The ghost hesitated at the threshold.

Clay walked right through him, stepping into the sepulchre. Three low marble tables had been placed inside the crypt, and upon each of them had been arranged a coffin.

"Which?" he asked.

"The middle," Dr. Graves said from the doorway, his whispered voice just as much a ghost as his flesh.

Clay first walked the inner perimeter of the crypt, examining the corners. He looked over the other two coffins and the platforms upon which they stood, and then at last he stood by the center dais, running one hand over the surface of the coffin.

"Why did you never come here before?"

The ghost of Dr. Graves at last entered the crypt. "I was afraid that I would not be able to leave, that being this close to my body would trap me somehow, or perhaps send me on, forcing me into the afterlife before I had discovered the identity of my killer."

"You're here now."

"My frustration has overcome my fear at last."

Clay nodded. "All right. But stay over there, just in case."

He tore the lid off of the coffin with a splintering of wood. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Graves ripple and fade as though about to disappear. Clay paused, worried, but then he realized it was only the shock of seeing his final rest so abruptly interrupted and not that the spirit world was calling Graves back.

"Tell me about Professor Zarin," Clay said, mostly to distract Graves as he reached in and touched the cool, dry skull inside the coffin. "He was the biggest thorn in your side in those days, right?"

"Zarin was . . . persistent. A madman, but organized. He truly thought the world ought to answer to him, and if they would not, he'd punish them. I came into conflict with him many times."

Clay bent over the coffin, tracing his hands over the bones, searching for any sign of prior disturbance. But no one had been here. No one had ever dared to break into this crypt until they had arrived.

"He must have been your primary suspect."

The ghost drifted around the crypt, brushing up against the coffins of his mother and father. He seemed quite distant, as though he were quietly communing with their long-departed spirits, sharing love and regrets. And perhaps he was.

"Leonard?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. I haunted Zarin for years, but I came to believe he wasn't responsible. My investigation revealed that Zarin had been in jail at the time of my murder and was furious that someone else had taken my life. He even swore to destroy whomever was responsible for robbing him of the pleasure of killing me."

Clay arched an eyebrow. "Nice. And he must be long dead, anyway, so no answers there."

"On the contrary," Dr. Graves replied.

Clay turned to look at the ghost, troubled to think that while he stared at Leonard Graves he also had his fingers thrust into the ribcage of his skeleton.

"What do you mean?"
The ghost turned up his collar, a thoroughly human gesture and one that lent a strange solidity to him. He shivered as though cold and stared not at Clay but at the coffin. He was too far away to see his bones inside, but the view must be troubling enough.

"Just what I said. Zarin's still alive, though he must be well over a hundred by now. If he'd passed through the spirit world, I would have felt his death. Our fates were always entwined. I just . . . would have known."

Clay nodded, lost in thought now. Like Graves had been in life, Zarin had been a brilliant but otherwise ordinary man. That he could be alive after so many years seemed improbable, though not impossible. Still, they were starting this investigation all over again. That meant he could take nothing for granted, no matter what conclusions Graves had already come to.

He grunted, knitting his brows as he looked down into the coffin. Troubled, he moved around to the other side and peered in, reaching down to run his fingers along each rib. Though little of the sunlight touched the bones, what illumination existed was enough for Clay's inhuman eyes.

"What is it?" Graves asked. "Have you found a . . . what did you call it? A tether?"

Clay finished examining the remains. With a deep breath, he cast aside the cobwebs of his ruminations and shook his head. "No. There's no soul tether. But as I told you, I didn't expect there to be. It's been sixty odd years, far too long for a trace of the spirit to still be left behind."

The ghost slid his hands into his pockets and stepped out of the sunlight streaming through the door into the shadows of a deep corner in the crypt. In the dark, he seemed almost alive. His transparent flesh seemed to have greater texture.

"So, what's troubling you?" Graves asked. "What did you find?"

Clay ran a hand across the stubble on his cheek and looked back at the coffin, at the bones of his friend.

"The newspaper reports of your death say you were shot in the back."

Dr. Graves nodded. "Yes. The bullet came from a rifle. It struck me near the spine, midway between neck and pelvis. I remember that much. But you know that. We've discussed this."

"Yes. We have," Clay said. He stared at Graves. "The thing is, Leonard, if you were shot where you say, or anywhere on the upper body, the odds of the bullet not striking bone are astronomical. Logic dictates that it must have struck bone."

"Of course."

Clay rested his hand on the edge of the coffin. "There's no evidence of a bullet wound on these bones."

"But I remember . . ." Graves whispered, gaze darting around, searching the shadows, lost.

"If this is your body, my friend, what you remember is impossible."

CHAPTER SIX

Wearing his fine suit of man-skin, Baalphegor-Moabites strolled the early morning streets of Boston, taking in the sights of humanity.

He stopped to watch as a deliveryman carefully wheeled a metal cart loaded with baked goods toward the side entrance of a nearby shop and breathed in the succulent aroma of freshly prepared foodstuffs through the nostrils of his flesh mask.

"Watch it, pal," the human said from behind the cart, as he struggled to maneuver it across the sidewalk.

The demon was amused.
He called me pal.

It was a wholly satisfying experience to be able to walk among them undetected. The flesh of the large man provided for him by the
listener
was a perfect fit, much better than some of other skin suits he'd worn on previous visits to the realm of humanity.

"It smells delicious," he commented in the human's tongue, perfectly comfortable in his disguise as he stepped out of the deliveryman's way. Baalphegor was surprised at how quickly it all came back to him. He had not spoken this language in quite some time, but there it was, as if he'd used it only yesterday.

The human scowled. "Wish the same could be said for you." His homely features wrinkled in distaste. "You smell like shit."

The suit of flesh did give off a rather pungent aroma, even though Baalphegor had been very careful not to spill any of the bodily fluids on his person as he had prepared it. But then again, he had been ravenous upon his arrival, and had fed upon the human listener who had helped him to complete his journey.

Baalphegor looked down at the clothing that adorned his disguise and saw that he had gotten quite a bit of his meal on himself.

"Not shit," the traveler from the beyond said with a shake of his large, head. "Blood." He moved his own facial features around beneath the mask, attempting to form a smile.

The deliveryman quickened his pace, and Baalphegor waved farewell as he continued his own journey up Commonwealth Avenue.

He would have loved to spend what time he had remaining exploring the great city of Boston, remembering how it was the last time he had visited. But alas, that wasn't to be the case, for the demon had risked much to travel here for matters most dire.

Matters of life and death.

Since his arrival from beyond the pale, he had walked, refamiliarizing himself with the world that had come to fascinate him so much in his long lifetime. It was truly a most remarkable place, and if he had the capacity to feel emotion, he would have expressed deep sorrow to know that very shortly, it would exist no more.

The Devourer is coming,
the demon mused.

Soon the Demogorgon will be here.

Eve shook away the cobwebs of sleep as she padded down the winding staircase of Conan Doyle's home, drawn to the delicious aroma of something cooking.

Passing the grandfather clock in the hall she saw that it was a little after five, and the sun had almost completely set. She loved this time of year, when the sun went down so much earlier, giving her more hours of freedom. Conan Doyle had a spell he could use to protect her from the sunlight, but its effects wore off within a day or two without the sorcerer's constant attention, and the magic did something unpleasant to her. Under the influence of the spell, Eve's skin crawled as though she was covered in filth. It had other side effects as well, including nausea and migraines, if she tried to keep the magic going long term.

Screw that. She preferred the night.

She entered the kitchen, her bare feet slapping on the cold tile of the floor as she went to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. Squire was at the stove, basting something with melted butter. Whatever it was, it had four legs and the remains of wings.

"What the hell is that?" she asked, finding the Tupperware bottle of blood that she kept for her morning pick-me-up.

Squire scowled as he looked at her. "What's it look like?"

"That's why I'm asking," she said, raising her voice before popping the cover off the container for a swig of the viscous fluid.

"It's a turkey, for Christ's sake," he grumbled, finishing up his basting and sliding the rack back into the oven.

"With four legs?" she said, allowing the refrigerator door to slam closed behind her.

"Didn't say it was from around here," the hobgoblin grumbled, placing the container of butter on the counter and removing the thick oven mitt from his hand. "And good evening to you, sunshine," he said with a snarl. "Wake up on the wrong side of the casket, did we?"

"Fuck off," she spat, walking to one of the stools at the island in the center of the room. She took another gulp from bottle. "You know I don't sleep in a casket here."

"And you do at your place?" he asked, going to one of the lower cabinets and removing a pan and a mixing bowl. He placed them on the counter.

"It's not really a casket," she said. "It's more like a sarcophagus. It's really nice."

"I bet," Squire said, pulling out a stool to get at some up the upper cabinets where he retrieved some more baking supplies.

"What's the occasion?" she asked, watching him step down from the stool, arms loaded. "Big, four-legged turkey cooking in the oven, vegetables on top of the stove. Did I oversleep and wake up on Thanksgiving?"

"Mr. Doyle and Ceridwen got back from their travels sometime yesterday, and I thought a little home cooking would be just the thing to welcome them."

"Nothing says welcome home like a four-legged turkey," Eve said with a wink, taking another swig of blood.

"So it's got four fucking legs, what's the big deal?" he asked, pulling a two-tiered step over to the counter and climbing up to work.

"What are you making now?"

"Corn bread." He poured a tablespoon of vegetable oil into the pan, then climbed up onto the counter, turning on the upper oven.

"Jeez, how come I never get a spread like this when I come back?"

"'Cause you're a bitch," Squire said casually, over his shoulder, as he continued preparing the corn bread.

Eve nearly choked. She wiped a crimson dribble from the corner of her mouth. "Have I mentioned how much I hate your guts?"

"Not in the last few minutes," Squire said, pouring ingredients into the large bowl.