The Devil's Workshop (28 page)

C
inderhouse was frozen to the spot. Jack had come for him. The spider had found his fly. Had he followed Cinderhouse? Had he seen everything? Did he know what his fly was thinking, had been thinking? Or was he genuinely a god, anywhere and everywhere according to His whims?

The front door was still partially open, and Jack nudged Hammersmith’s body aside with the toe of his shoe so that he could get the door closed. He was still holding the handkerchief and Cinderhouse could smell ether on it, even from several feet away. In Jack’s other hand, he held his black medical bag by its handle.

The older man was crumpled against the bottom of the staircase, breathing strong and steady, in a deep drug-induced sleep.
Upstairs, a woman moaned, but nobody moved to investigate the noise.

When the door was closed and Jack had turned silently toward him, Cinderhouse heard a faint plopping sound, something splashing nearby. He looked down and realized his arm was bleeding. Blood ran swiftly down and around his knuckles and leapt free of him to the floor, where a dark puddle was forming. The edges of the gash were separated and rubbery, and Cinderhouse thought he could see bone down there at the bottom of that elastic red canyon. As he stared at his arm, it suddenly began to hurt. It hurt very much.

“I told you no more children,” Jack said.

“Ngo,” Cinderhouse said.
No.
Without a tongue, his
n
sounds came out as
g
sounds. But even those were strange and different, like a choking bird. “Ngo, I wag’t gong-ga . . .”
No, I wasn’t going to . . .

“Don’t be afraid.” Jack stepped over Hammersmith’s legs and around the dozing body of the older man and took Cinderhouse by the arm, just above his elbow. Panicked, Cinderhouse batted at him with his other hand, but the muscle wasn’t responsive and his hand flopped about, flicking blood against the walls. Jack smiled, but angled backward so as to avoid the worst of the blood spatter.

“Be calm,” Jack said. “You’ve disobeyed me and you must be punished again. But you did me a great service in freeing me and I do not forget. I am fully aware of what I owe you.”

He smiled again and Cinderhouse looked at his eyes, saw
affection and gentleness, and he relaxed, began to refocus his attention on his injured arm.

“Come,” Jack said. “Let’s take a look at that. You’re bleeding a great deal.”

There was now a hungry glint in Jack’s eye. He turned Cinderhouse around and guided him toward the parlor on the other side of the hall. Cinderhouse was amazed by the strength in Jack’s fingers. He hadn’t moved in more than a year. How strong must he have been before his imprisonment?

He walked ahead of Jack into the front room, with its well-used but comfortable-looking chesterfield, the fireplace, and the mismatched chairs. He felt a sharp pain at the back of his neck, like a bee sting, and tried to lift his hand to touch his neck, but his hand didn’t respond. Neither of his arms would move. His knees buckled under him and he fell straight down, collapsing in on himself. He would have hit his face on the floor if Jack hadn’t caught him.

“A scalpel between the vertebrae,” Jack said. “I’ve only done that once before, so I’m quite excited to see how well it works for you.” He rolled Cinderhouse over and arranged his arms and legs so that the bald man was lying flat on his back with his limbs spread slightly away from his body. “Can you move at all?”

Cinderhouse tried to shake his head, but could not.

“I think that means no,” Jack said. “Can you still feel anything?”

He poked Cinderhouse in the cheek with the tip of his
scalpel. The bald man shouted and Jack clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Oh, good,” Jack said. “It’s a delicate thing, cutting off your body from your head and yet allowing the sensation to remain. I’m afraid I didn’t do it quite right the last time, but I’m delighted that today’s operation seems to be a complete success. Hold still.”

Jack chuckled at his own joke. He sat on Cinderhouse’s chest and used his free hand, the one holding the scalpel, to cut away the sleeve of the bald man’s jacket. Really it was Elizabeth’s jacket, but to the victor go the spoils. Cinderhouse rolled his eyes to the side and watched Jack work the sleeve down his arm and off. Jack took his hand away, but before Cinderhouse could make a sound, the jacket sleeve was in his mouth. Jack lifted the bald man’s head and tied the ends of the sleeve together at the back of his neck. Jack pulled at the makeshift gag, testing it.

“There,” he said. “Nice and tight. Can you talk?”

Cinderhouse shouted, but the sound was muffled and remote.

“I think that will do. Now, I don’t have a lot of time. There’s a woman upstairs who is screaming for me. But I will try to honor you as well as I’m able.”

Cinderhouse lay helpless while Jack undressed him. Saucy Jack was quick and efficient. Cinderhouse was completely nude in no time at all.

Jack knelt beside him and smoothed the worried furrows from Cinderhouse’s forehead. He bent and kissed Cinderhouse lightly on the mouth, pulled back, and smiled. His expression
was loving and gentle, a father tucking his son in at bedtime. Cinderhouse did his best to smile back, but the gag was in the way.

Then Jack held up the scalpel, regarded it curiously in the half-light from the parlor window, and went to work.

Cinderhouse felt nothing until the scalpel began to cut into his face.

W
alter heard the soft
snack
of the shackle’s lock and then his arm swung free and the heavy chain dropped to the ground. He held his breath, listened, and watched the darkness, waiting to see if Jack was still nearby, if he would hear and return.

After a long moment, he got to work on the shackle around his other wrist. It took only seconds. A little freedom of movement made all the difference. The chains fell away and he slumped back against the rocky wall behind him. He waited until he had caught his breath again, then bent to work on the restraints at his ankles. When he was completely free, he took a step forward.

And fell.

He rolled over and leaned forward, massaged the circulation back into his legs. His left trouser leg was damp and sticky and the feeling did not return to that leg. His right leg seemed much better, although it was painful to the touch.

He pulled himself to the opening at the front of his cell. He felt his way to the next cell and ran his hands along the wall until he found a wooden cube, a box that had been upended to make a table. He eased himself up and rested against it. The lantern Jack had used was still there, along with a box of tapers. When the lamp was lit, he held it up and looked around the tiny space. Adrian March hung from the wall above a gleaming black puddle in the dirt. The odor in the enclosed space was overwhelmingly foul. There was a long branding iron propped against the box, shiny and never used. Day used it as a cane, limped across to March and set the lantern down on the ground. He put his ear to March’s mouth and heard the faint rasp of breath.

His lockpick was bent and so it took him a little longer to get March out of his chains. He eased March down to the ground and left him there.

He picked up the lantern and leaned on his iron, went out of March’s cell and past his own into the cell on the other side. A man—or rather most of a man—hung there, tangled in his chains as if he had struggled with them. March had called him Griffin, but his name hardly mattered anymore.

Day looked around the cell. There was another box here, like the one in March’s cell. On top of the box, Day saw his own jacket, his flask, and his handcuffs. He picked them up and put
them away in his jacket pocket, then put the jacket on. He looked for his revolver, but it wasn’t there. Which meant that Jack was armed.

Day took a deep breath and went to the back wall of the cell and freed Griffin’s corpse from the chains. He was tired, and it took a great deal of effort to unwrap the heavy links from Griffin’s tattered flesh. He mistook a loop of intestines for a chain and, when he realized what he was holding, he panicked and began to sob.

When the body was finally extricated from its fetters, Day laid it down against the wall. He closed Griffin’s wide staring eyes and limped away, left it there in the dark. He would send people for it. He could barely walk, and March would need help. The living came first.

He sat on the box in March’s cell and drained his flask, felt the honey-colored liquid warm him from his chest out in a radiant spreading wave. When the flask was empty, he corked it and put it away. He used the branding iron and stood as well as he was able, went to March, and woke the elder inspector.

March was weak, but he could stand. The two of them leaned on each other and made their way out through the tunnel. They passed the ancient ruined city and the underground wilderness where few humans had ever set foot. They saw a pack of wild dogs from a distance, but the dogs were chasing a deer that bounded through the darkness and they showed no interest in the two men.

At last they found a ladder sunk into the wall. They pushed and pulled each other up the ancient wooden rungs and shoved
against the ceiling at the top. They came up through a trapdoor in the floor of a small room that was filled with religious artifacts. They crossed the room slowly and quietly, picked a lock on a door, and stepped outside into the waning sun.

They were in yet another churchyard and, far across the grass, under the trees, they saw a lane where people walked and carriages rolled past. Day drew the handcuffs from his pocket and turned and snapped them shut around Adrian March’s wrists.

“I told you I would place you under arrest when we were free,” he said.

“You are as good as your word. And I don’t have the strength to fight you, Walter.”

The sound of March’s voice sickened Day. He didn’t want to talk to his mentor. He wanted to make sure his wife was all right. He wanted to collapse into bed and hold her. But he knew that once he left Adrian March in a cell, he would never go back to see him. And there were things he needed to know.

“Tell me who the others are. Tell me where to find the rest of your Karstphanomen.”

“So you can arrest them, too?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t do that.”

“No matter. I’ll find them.”

“I believe you might. But I won’t help you do it.”

Day nodded and held March’s arm above the elbow, and together they staggered across the churchyard.

Day kept his eyes wide open and focused on that distant thoroughfare. He prayed that it wasn’t a dream or a mirage.

C
laire shut her eyes tight and pushed. She wanted Dr Kingsley to come back, to come and take her new baby away from her so that she could concentrate properly on whatever was happening now. She was afraid that if she pushed too hard she might let the baby fall from the crook of her arm, that her daughter would roll off the bed and be injured.

She had given birth already. Why was it happening again? Why hadn’t it stopped? She was helpless. She wanted to rest and her body wasn’t allowing it.

Above the sound of her own hard breathing, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Someone moved past the foot of the bed, and then the light from the bedroom window was blocked.

“I heard noises,” Claire said. “A lot of them. From downstairs. What’s happening?”

“Nothing that need concern you, Claire.”

It was not Dr Kingsley’s voice.

She opened her eyes and saw the dark shape of a man silhouetted against the window. He had long wavy hair, and the light haloed around him, making it seem as if he were glowing. She shut her eyes again.

“You’re not Dr Kingsley! Get out! Leave at once!”

She wrapped her arm around her crying daughter and used her free hand to rearrange the sheets on the bed, trying to cover herself, but the man chuckled. It was a warm sound, sympathetic and caring.

“Your baby is perfect,” he said. “What a transformation you have wrought.”

“Leave this room.”

“Dr Kingsley is very tired and I’m afraid he’s fallen asleep. But I’m . . . Well, Claire, you could say I’m a good friend of your husband’s. Walter Day and I were just talking a short while ago, and he asked me to stop and look in on you.”

“Walter’s all right?”

“I should imagine he’s on his way here by now.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I must be. Else why would I be carrying this black bag?” He looked down at her diary on the bedside table. “Is this yours? How delicious.”

He flipped it open and riffled through it from back to front. He stopped at the first page that wasn’t blank.

“It hurts,” Claire said.

“It’s a poem.”

“Why does it hurt when the baby’s already come?”

“May I read this? Do you mind?”

“Please help.”

He began to read out loud, and Claire was quiet. The urge to push subsided for a moment and the baby stopped crying. The new doctor’s voice was deep and pleasant as he read:

“Baby hears a sound at night:

A silent footstep in the hall.

Something moves, but nothing’s there.

It’s just a shadow on the wall.

Baby pulls her blanket tight

And she reaches for her doll.

‘’Tisn’t very nice to stare,’

Remarks the shadow on the wall.

Shadow’s voice is soft and slight,

But evil lurks where shadows fall.

Listen to it if you dare,

To that dark shadow on the wall.

Baby says, ‘I think you’re right,

But, as you see, I’m awfully small.

Just now you gave me quite a scare,

You wicked shadow on the wall.’

Shadow moves, that evil sprite.

It starts to creep; it starts to crawl.

It stops to perch upon a chair.

It waits, that shadow on the wall.

Shadow grows to its full height.

It’s ample, dark, and terribly tall.

Oh, Baby, Baby, please beware

Of that black shadow on the wall!

Baby says, ‘I’ll make a light

And then you won’t exist at all.

You’ll disappear into the air,

You silly shadow on the wall.’

Candles fill the room with light

For brightness is the shadow’s pall.

Baby sleeps without a care.

There are no shadows on the wall.”

When he had finished, he closed the covers of the diary and held it clasped in his hands.

“I quite like it,” he said. “It appears you were expecting me, after all. May I keep this?”

“Keep it?”

“Consider it your gift to me. You ought to give me something for the occasion, don’t you think?”

Claire felt a new wave of pain ripple out from her
abdomen. “I don’t . . . Can’t you help me? Tell me what’s happening?”

“You haven’t finished what’s begun, Mrs Day. Say please.”

“Please.”

“You had only to ask properly.”

She felt the weight of her daughter lifted from her and she opened her eyes again, too late to see the new doctor as he passed beyond her sight near the foot of the bed.

“You know,” he said, “this little one and I have something in common.” There was a gentle singsong quality to his voice, perhaps left over from reading the nursery rhyme. “We share a birthday. Did you know that? Although in my case, I suppose you’d call it a
re
birthday.”

“My baby . . .”

“She’ll be fine here with me,” he said. “Don’t you worry about her. You’ve got quite enough to do right now.”

“Who are you? I don’t know your name.”

“My special friends call me Jack. And I think we’re going to be very special friends indeed.”

“Please tell me what’s happening,” she said again.

“You’re having another baby. Twins.”

“No. That’s not possible. I already had my baby.”

“Softly now. Stop your worries. Jack is here.”

“Jack?”

“You have given me so many lovely gifts today. A poem to treasure for always and secrets still to read. And you have given me the best thing of all. A party and guests to celebrate with. I have never had a special birthday friend, and now I have two.
Isn’t that marvelous? We shall be close, your babies and I, and I think we shall have a party every year on this day.”

“Nnnggg!” Claire bore down. She couldn’t stop what was happening, couldn’t listen anymore to the strange doctor. She couldn’t make sense of his words, and so she let him disappear back into the darkness that fuzzed the edges of her vision.

“Yes,” said the shadow on the wall. “By all means, let us welcome our final guest.”