Morpheus Road 03 - The Blood (10 page)

Marsh had called for a cab. Ordinarily he would have taken his bike, but he knew he wouldn't have much time and he didn't want Cooper to track him down. Getting away from the house quickly was critical. Once gone, he felt certain that he was headed to the last place anybody would expect him to go. Even Cooper. Especially Cooper. Still, he had to be certain so he wanted to get there as quickly as possible.

"You visiting somebody special?" the cabdriver asked.

Marsh didn't answer.

The cabbie added, "I'm not sure when they close up. You might not have much time."

"I won't need much time," was Marsh's emotionless answer.

The cabbie stopped trying to make conversation. It was obvious to him that the kid in the back was upset. He fig
ured it was better to let him deal with it on his own.

It was getting late in the afternoon but still hours before dark. That was one consolation for Marsh. He didn't like being alone in the dark . . . especially not where he was going.

The cab rolled to a stop, and the cabbie turned back to him. "I'll wait for you right here."

"Don't," Marsh said quickly as he dug for his wallet.

"You're in the middle of nowhere!"

Marsh threw a twenty-dollar bill at the cabbie. "Thanks. Good-bye."

"Whatever," the driver said with a shrug.

Marsh climbed out of the cab awkwardly. It was tough to move with a crowbar hidden along his leg inside his pants. He slammed the door shut and stood watching as the yellow car drove away along the country lane. The road was empty. There was never much traffic in this part of town. Once the cab disappeared and the whine of its engine died away, the only sound Marsh heard came from the early birds who had already begun to hunt for their evening meal. It was a peaceful, lazy late summer afternoon.

Marsh pulled the heavy crowbar out of his pants leg, then turned to see that the front gate was still open. He was relieved to know that he wouldn't have to break in. He walked up to the tall wrought-iron fence and stopped, flashing back to the last time he had been there. It wasn't a good memory, and he quickly shook it off. He knew that if he dwelled on the past, especially a past that was so disturb
ing, there would be no way he would be able to go through with what he had come to do. He had to clear his mind and keep moving. With a quick breath he stepped forward and walked through the open gate of Stony Brook Cemetery.

He knew exactly where to go, though it had been a few years since he had been to that particular
area. He had seen the place many times . . . in his mind. It was burned into his memory, as disturbing images usually are. He walked slowly
along the paved road that wound between the sea of head
stones and statues. It was an old cemetery, with graves dating back to the seventeenth century. The one small consolation was that he wasn't going to visit the older, Gothic section. The ancient mausoleums, tombstones, and statues in that area were the fodder for nightmares. Marsh had more than enough nightmare material to deal with already.

Because it was late in the day, there were no other people visiting graves. The only activity was a sole worker riding
a backhoe, filling in a grave that was situated about fifty yards away from where Marsh was walking. Marsh didn't
stop to watch. The idea of earth being dumped onto a coffin was a chilling one. It made him think of the term that Coop said his grandfather used for dying: "The dirt nap." It was a cavalier phrase that cheapened death. It didn't seem as clever or funny when you considered the literal meaning.

He wondered if it was Ennis's grave, since the funeral had been only a few hours before. The thought made him
pick up the pace. He didn't want his imagination to play with that image. Besides, he didn't want the worker to know he was there.

He walked for another five minutes and caught the first glimpse of his destination peeking through a grove of
cypress trees. It was a mausoleum, but not one of the crusty
old ones that could be found in the ancient section of the cemetery. This was a modern structure made of marble and
stone, with square lines and not a single forlorn statue in sight. Marsh had been inside exactly once and promised himself that he would never go back.

He was about to break that promise.

The building could have passed for a small modern church. Pots of colorful, well-tended flowers were to either
side of the entrance, and the grass that surrounded it looked to have been trimmed that very day. The light gray marble
walls were spotless. The glass doors were sparkling clear. It was a clean, inviting structure . . . for the dead.

Four marble steps led up to a short porch that had two tall, white columns guarding the entryway. Marsh fought the memories of his last visit as he climbed the steps and pulled on the gleaming brass handle. The door was locked.

It made him think of a joke from when he was a young kid.

"Why do cemeteries have fences?"

"Because people are dying to get in."

He never thought it was very funny, but all the same, in that moment, he was dying to get in. He dug into his jeans and pulled out a ring with two shiny brass keys. They had been gathering dust in the back of his father's desk drawer at home. He never forgot about them, but had never expected to use them either. He wasn't even 100 percent sure they would work. He picked one and slipped it into the lock. He held his breath and twisted.

The lock turned effortlessly. Marsh closed his eyes and pulled the door open. He was instantly hit by an overwhelm
ing smell. A sweet smell. Flowers. People always commented on how wonderful flowers smelled. Marsh didn't agree. The fragrant aroma always brought back terrible memories for him, most of them having to do with funerals.

He entered quickly and closed the door. There were pull-down shades on each of the doors to block out direct light. He didn't want anyone to catch sight of him inside so he lowered both of the blinds. Not only was he hidden from curious eyes, but by lowering the blinds, the outside world ceased to exist. It was as if he had entered another world.

He listened. The mausoleum was quiet. He was alone. He had done it.

The easy part.

The ceiling was glass, which allowed in enough late-day light to see by. There was no need to turn on any lamps
that might be noticed from outside. Directly inside the front entrance was the meditation chapel. There was a long marble bench on either side. On the wall behind each was a mosaic artwork that depicted a different tranquil country
side. Large vases filled with fresh flowers stood in each cor
ner. It looked like a pleasant enough place to sit and think, if you wanted to sit and think about hanging out in a build
ing full of dead people.

He walked to the far end of the chapel, where there were wide rooms off to either side. The walls of
each were covered with rows of symmetrical marble-faced squares roughly two feet wide. These were the niches were people interred the cremated remains of their loved ones. Many had the names of the tenants etched into the marble and painted a rich golden color. Most of them had small bronze vases attached. Some held fresh flowers, others had the remains of petals that had wilted long ago. Most were empty. The majority of the niches at eye level had names. Many of the squares that were lower or much higher were blank. There was plenty of room for those who were dying to get in.

Though he had only stolen quick glimpses of the mau
soleum the one time he was there, he remembered it all. He also remembered where he had to go. Halfway along the wall of the room to the right was another door. He turned and walked to it, passing the niches that held the urns of ashes that were once people. He arrived at the solid brass door and didn't bother checking to see if it was locked. He went right for the ring with the two keys and chose the second key. This lock turned as easily as the first, and with a loud click that echoed through the empty chamber, the door was unlocked.

The door was wider than normal in order to accommo
date deliveries. He pulled it open to find that it was also heavy. Like a vault. Swinging it wide, he saw the set of stairs that led below. It was dark down there. He was scared. It was the fear that anybody would have if they were alone in a dark mausoleum, surrounded by the dead. He felt foolish for it. There was plenty for him to be afraid of, but not in the traditional sense. He was about to step into territory that would be unfathomable to the average person. Ghosts? They were the least of his worries. What waited below was far more horrible than any spirit. He steeled himself, stepped inside, and pulled the door shut behind him. He grasped the crowbar tighter and began his descent.

No sunlight penetrated the chamber. He needed to turn on a light. He stopped to let his eyes adjust, and after a few seconds he was able to make out faint, gray detail. To his relief, a row of light switches was on the wall to his right. He reached out and flipped the first in line. This triggered to life a row of lights that were recessed near the ceiling. It was a soft, unobtrusive light that created just enough illumina
tion to navigate by. Slowly, he descended into the depths and stopped when he arrived at the bottom stair.

He had reached the final leg of his journey and turned to gaze into the subterranean crypt.

The room covered twice as much area as the structure above because most of the space had been created by bur
rowing underground. The ceiling was low, but the niches built into these walls were much larger than the ones on the ground floor. The receptacles up top were designed to hold a small urn of ashes. These crypts were built to hold full-size coffins. The facades that covered each of the crypts was made from the same material as above. White marble. But rather than being two-feet square, the symmetrical sec
tions built into these walls were roughly seven feet long and two feet high . . . the standard size to hold a coffin that was slipped in sideways. As above, there were bronze vases that
held flowers. Marsh was surprised to see that they all looked as fresh as if they had been delivered that day. It didn't take long to understand why. They were plastic. As above, many of the crypts were inscribed with names. Most had dates. Some even had prayers.

His destination was the far end of the room.

He took a step and started to shake. His stomach twisted, and he had all he could do to keep from getting sick. He thought he had gotten over that reaction to stress. It was just another hurdle he would have to overcome.

"Ralph," came a soft voice.

Marsh didn't react. He thought it was his mind play
ing tricks. It wouldn't have been the first time. He stopped walking, listened, then continued on.

"What are you doing?" came the voice again.

It was no inner dialogue. Marsh spun quickly to see Cooper standing on the stairs behind him. In just a few sec
onds his emotions ran from surprise, to fear, to anger.

"How did you find me?" Marsh asked.

Coop shrugged. "I can always find you . . . or did you forget that?"

He had.

"Besides, you left your cell phone at your house, and Sydney checked it. You called for a cab. The dispatcher said they brought you here. So Sydney knows too."

"Where is she?"

"I told her to stay put, which means she's probably on the way. I can move a lot quicker than she can."

There was an awkward silence.

"What's with the crowbar?" Coop asked.

"You can't stop me," Marsh said, his voice quivering.

"I don't even know what you're doing."

Marsh held up the tool to examine it. "I'm going to save my mother," he said.

With that he turned and strode for the far end of the
burial chamber.

Coop ran ahead of him.

"Talk to me, Ralph," he said. "What's going on?"

"I'm a smart guy," Marsh said. "It took a while but I
finally put it together."

"Okay, I'm not and I didn't. Enlighten me."

"My mother told you the story about what happened
under that temple in Greece with her and Ennis. They found
the poleax in Damon's tomb, along with the six crucibles."

"Yeah, it was all about protecting the Rift."

"Exactly. The Rift. That's how she died. She wasn't
crushed in an earthquake. She fell into the Rift. And it
wasn't really a tomb, was it?"

"No, I guess not. At least not Damon's tomb. He'd gone
through the Rift too. Centuries before."

Marsh had reached the far wall of crypts. He stopped
and looked to his friend. His eyes were wild and his heart
was thumping frantically.

"I can't let her spirit die, Coop."

"I'm doing all I can."

"I know. But I haven't been. At least until now."

"And what is it you're doing?"

Marsh looked down at the marble slab that covered a crypt
at waist level. Etched in the white marble were the words: