Maelstrom (7 page)

Whyborne let out a long sigh. “Well, then.
It seems a visit to my father is in order.”

Griffin

I awoke to a sharp rapping on our door.

The bedroom was dark, without even the light
of the moon to seep in through the window. A soft breeze stirred
the curtains, bringing with it Widdershins’s distinctly fishy
scent. We’d thrown back the coverlets, and I felt Whyborne stiffen
beside me, his naked skin lightly filmed with sweat where our
bodies touched.

“That isn’t Christine’s knock,” he
whispered.

My mind sorted through possibilities as I
sat up. A potential client in dire need? A neighbor in some sort of
distress?

The knock came again, this time much more
heavily. “Mr. Flaherty!” a voice called from the front yard. “It’s
Detective Tilton. Open the door.”

Whyborne let out a soft gasp, and my heart
started into my ribs in fear. Wild images chased themselves through
my mind—the police bursting in, finding Whyborne and I in bed
together. Hauling us off to jail. Standing beside him in a docket,
both of us facing ruin at best, hard time in jail at worst.

“Go,” I said, switching on the light and
reaching for my nightshirt.

He didn’t have to ask, sliding out of the
room and into the darkened corridor. A moment later, the light in
what was ostensibly his bedroom came on. He’d remember to muss the
bed sheets, I told myself, even as I snatched up the pillow his
head had rested on and arranged it behind mine, as if I’d used it
as a prop. Damn, I should have given it to him, to exchange for the
one in his bedroom, the dampness of sweat a guarantee he’d indeed
slept on it.

It was too late now. I tied my dressing gown
about my waist as I left my room and paused in the study. A photo
taken by Iskander showed Whyborne and I on the couch together, and
I tossed it hastily into a drawer for concealment, before making my
way down the stairs.

Had my theft of the crime scene photograph
provoked Tilton too far? Or, as with the investigation that had
ended with me in his jail years ago, had my prying angered the
wrong people?

“I’ve got the door, Whyborne!” I called once
I reached the hallway, loud enough for Tilton to hear. Just a
landlord assuring his friend and lodger that the situation was
under control, and there was no reason to bestir himself from his
entirely separate bed.

Tilton stood on the stoop, dark rings around
his eyes. From the stubble on his face, I guessed he’d been roused
from bed himself not long ago, and in too much haste to shave. I
gave him a look of concern. “Detective Tilton, is everything all
right? You don’t seem well.”

He shook his head, and for a moment seemed
to be at a loss for words. “I’d say everything is far from all
right, Mr. Flaherty. I’ve come about your client. Dewey
Lambert.”

The tight knot of fear loosened in my gut.
He hadn’t come for Whyborne and me after all.

Then his words registered, and a new kind of
fear touched me. “Mr. Lambert? Is he all right?”

It was a stupid question; Tilton wouldn’t
have been on my doorstep at this hour if nothing was wrong. “I’m
afraid Mr. Lambert died tonight in his cell,” Tilton said, a tremor
in his voice. “The circumstances surrounding his death
were...odd.”

Odd.
The same word Lambert had used when he came to me in the first
place. And now the poor bastard was dead.

“Odd how?” I asked cautiously.

“You need to see for yourself.” Tilton
glanced past me. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d bring Dr. Whyborne
with you.”

My spine stiffened. “Dr. Whyborne?”

Tilton met my gaze, but there was no
challenge or anger in his eyes. Just fear. “Word gets around in
this town, Mr. Flaherty. There’s an official version of what
happened at the museum that Hallowe’en. Of the freak wave that
almost wiped Widdershins off the map, only to die away just in
time. And then there’s...another version, let’s say.” He looked
away. “I don’t mean to imply Dr. Whyborne has any...expertise...in
these sorts of things. I’m just suggesting that if you happen to
bring a curious friend to the morgue with you, I’d be
indebted.”

Technically, there was no reason even for me
to go. With Lambert dead, there was no one paying me to look into
the case. I had no business investigating his death; rather, I
should leave the matter to the police and be done.

Tubbs had died horribly on a stone altar
very like the one on which the Brotherhood would have sacrificed
me. And now Lambert was dead as well, in a manner that disturbed
the Widdershins police, who ought to be fairly inured to the
bizarre by now.

“Of course,” I said. “Allow me to wake Dr.
Whyborne and apprise him of the situation.”

Whyborne

The eastern sky was still black when we
arrived at the city morgue. Tilton led the way into the large front
room, where the unidentified dead lay on display, in hopes some
desperate spouse or child or mother might recognize them. I’d only
set foot here once before, when coming to view the body of Miss
Emily, the maid who’d helped raise me after Mother fell ill. I
still couldn’t think of her without a mix of grief and anger, for
all the secrets she’d kept from us.

The smell of death was heavy in the summer
heat, so thick I almost tasted it. I glanced at Griffin, but he
betrayed no disgust, his face carefully neutral in the presence of
so many police. The officer just behind him looked distinctly
green, however.

An unjust flicker of pleasure went through
me at that. Of course the police would—I desperately hoped—think
nothing of knocking on our door in the middle of the night. Never
realize we’d suffered those moments of heart-pounding fear, when I
contemplated the lawyers Father could muster, the judges he might
bribe.

But I hated that I had to be afraid at
all.

Tilton spoke with an attendant, who beckoned
us after. We passed through a small door into the inner workings of
the morgue. The thick walls held in a coolness absent in the
viewing room, though the reek of death didn’t lessen, as if it had
seeped into the very floor over time.

The officer remained outside the room, while
Griffin and I accompanied Tilton and the attendant within. Two
bodies lay on the steel tables tonight. Tilton didn’t bother to ask
which belonged to Lambert, but made straight for the sheet soaked
through with blood.

Not a good sign.

The attendant reached for the sheet, but
Tilton held up his hand. “Before you see the body, allow me to
explain what happened. Or what little we know of what happened.”
His skin had taken on a pasty hue. “According to the officer on
duty, everything was normal when he checked on the prisoners. There
was Lambert in his cell, and one of the Waites in another, worse
off for drink and passed out cold in his cot. The officer on night
watch put out the light and went back to his post just outside.
Everything was quiet for an hour or two. Then, just before
midnight, the screaming began.”

Tilton took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on
the bloody sheet. “The officer rushed back to see what was going
on, but by the time he arrived, Lambert was dead. He was no new
recruit, but he said the screams...” Tilton passed a hand over his
face. “I’ll have to keep a close eye, make sure he doesn’t turn to
drink to silence them in his dreams.”

At his signal, the attendant pulled back the
sheet. The face of the dead man was frozen in an expression of
horror and agony. His chest gaped open, ribs and sternum a
splintered ruin, fragments of bone pushed outward, as if something
had shoved its way through his body. I was glad not to have
anything in my stomach.

Griffin leaned closer, a frown drawing down
his brows. “What the devil happened to him?”

“Some kind of animal attacked him,” the
attendant said unexpectedly. “Dr. Greene took a look at him at
Detective Tilton’s request. Some monster chewed its way through his
body. Teeth marks are clear, and you can see some of the hairs
still stuck in the wound.”

Bile burned my throat, and I swallowed hard.
“Dear lord.” I rather wished I could sit down. But Tilton had
brought me here for a reason. “What sort of creature would
do...this?”

“Nothing natural,” Griffin murmured. He
continued to inspect the wound far more closely than I would have
been comfortable with. “I take it your officer saw nothing when he
entered the jail, Detective Tilton?”

“Just Lambert and a great deal of
blood.”

A chill went through me. What could have
savaged the man in such a way, then simply vanished? And from a
locked cell, no less?

“You don’t have to make any guesses as to
what caused this in my hearing,” Tilton said, his gaze focused on
me now. “I don’t want to know. Cause of death on the certificate
will be heart failure. Ordinarily I wouldn’t trouble you, Dr.
Whyborne, but given Mr. Flaherty’s involvement, I thought you might
want to know.”

The attendant didn’t look surprised by any
of this. How many disturbing corpses were quietly whisked away
under the convenient label of heart failure?

“Did the other prisoner see anything?”
Griffin took a step back from the table. “Hear anything?”

“Just the screams.” Tilton shrugged. “They
woke him from his stupor. He said it was too dark to make out
anything, and I’m inclined to believe him.”

“I see.” Griffin watched as the attendant
tugged the sheet back up over Lambert. “Thank you, Detective
Tilton.”

Tilton’s mouth thinned. “We haven’t seen eye
to eye over the years, Flaherty,” he said. “To be honest, I would
have preferred you set up shop in Boston or Arkham.”

Griffin’s mouth quirked slightly.
“‘Widdershins always knows its own,’” he quoted.

That damned prophecy. But Tilton glanced
uncomfortably at me, then away. “So it would seem. And I’m not fool
enough to challenge it. As of now, my part of the investigation is
closed, and I’d like it to stay that way. These are no doings for
an honest policeman.”

We parted ways in front of the morgue,
Tilton heading back to the police department. Griffin and I stood
together on the walk. The eastern sky had begun to turn gray, and
the first birds chirped from the trees shading the road. “Honest my
eye,” Griffin said as the clop of hooves faded. “Still, it’s good
to have him out of the way. It gives me a bit of a freer hand,
without having to wonder if I’m to be hauled in for impeding an
investigation.”

“Quite.” My eyes ached from lack of sleep.
“What do you think happened?”

“I was going to ask you the same question.”
Griffin looked up at me. The street lamp found the occasional
lighter strand amidst his chestnut hair, gleaming like gold.
“Clearly sorcery was involved. The only question is: what form did
it take?”

I shook my head slowly. “Blast if I know.
There are tales of spectral hounds savaging or carrying people off,
but I would have to research to discover if they’re real or just
folklore.”

“Talk to your father first,” Griffin
advised. “He may be able to set us on the right track.”

“Unless he’s involved himself,” I muttered.
“What if he’s trying to revive the Brotherhood?”

“If that were so, he would have encouraged
you to join in his efforts.” At my skeptical look, Griffin sighed.
“I know you don’t want to hear it, but your father cares for you.
Perhaps even more importantly, he’s come to respect you.”

“Ha, ha,” I said. “Very
amusing.” Father,
respect
me? He’d sooner throw all of his money into the
river.

Griffin frowned. “At the very least, he
couldn’t imagine he’d get away with any sorcerous dealings behind
your back. And given we helped destroy the Brotherhood the first
time around, that would be rather foolhardy on his part.”

“I suppose.” I stretched, my back popping
audibly. “It must all be related, though. The standing stones and
Tubbs’s murder, Lambert’s fit and the map, and now Lambert’s
death.”

“Agreed.” Griffin looked pensive. “Perhaps
there is some clue to be found in the background of one of them.
I’ll pursue that possibility. You speak to your father. If he has
nothing useful—or perhaps even if he does—we should consider
summoning Persephone tonight to make sure there’s no ketoi
connection.”

I’d not felt the dweller’s press against my
mind, but Griffin was right. We had to be certain. “Very well,” I
said, peering blearily in the direction of the rising sun. “But
first things first. Do you imagine there’s anywhere we can find a
cup of coffee?”

Whyborne

Before settling into my desk at work, I sent
word to Father, requesting we meet. His reply was prompt,
suggesting we share lunch at Whyborne House. With nothing else
pressing to occupy my time until then, I turned my attention back
to the Wisborg Codex.

Translating the cryptic letters seemed
imperative, given one attempt at stealing the manuscript had
already been made. If only I had some idea what language it might
be written in. Latin, Greek, or Aklo seemed likeliest, but
likelihood was hardly certainty.

I stared at the illustration of the ketoi.
What if the symbols belonged to whatever system of writing they
used? Did they have a system of writing? I felt a fool for never
having asked Persephone or Mother. But we’d always had other things
to speak of in our infrequent meetings: Mother wanted to hear of my
life, and Persephone wished to learn sorcery. I had been a poor
brother and son indeed, not to have asked more about their lives
beneath the sea.

I worked on the cipher, to no avail, for
several hours. Shortly before lunch, Christine came in. She held a
large envelope in one hand, which she tossed onto my desk.
“Iskander developed the photographs from yesterday,” she said,
taking her usual seat.