Wolf Moon Rising (41 page)

policemen in a straight line blocking the road, the brass buttons

on their uniforms punctuating the darkness, their headlights

splaying in the dirt, and their engines blaring in a high- pitched

whine.

Th

e worker in front leaned in to Quentin. “Th

em some a’

your guys?”

“I certainly do hope so,” said Quentin, but his voice sounded

strained and Jackie saw the glint of a revolver in his lap.

Th

ree policemen in the barricade dismounted and walked by

the hearse, swiveling their lights over the carriage. Th

ey tried to

shine their beams inside, but the curtained windows were covered

with the black cloth. One of the cops walked back to Quentin’s

side of the Duesenberg and nodded in deference before he spoke.

“Evenin’, Mr. Collins. Where you owls off to this time of

night?”

“Yes, hello, Offi

cer. Isn’t it obvious? We’re on our way to the

cemetery.”

“Ain’t it a little late in the day for a funeral?”

“Couldn’t have the ser vice any earlier. Interrupted by a raid.

You boys have been hard at work to night. Doin’ a fi ne job.”

Th

e policeman expanded a little at the compliment but re-

mained suspicious. “Seems like this could wait ’til mornin’.”

“Th

e wake was a long one. Two days. Th

e casket needs to go

in the mausoleum to night, if you get my drift.”

Th

e policeman shined his light in the back seat where Liz

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and Jackie sat with heads obediently bowed.

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“Wife and sister of the deceased,” said Quentin, and the

policeman nodded.

“My condolences,” he said to them, then back to Quentin,

“you don’t mind if we take a look inside your van, do you? See

everything’s on the up and up?” ”

“If you like. You might be interested to know the deceased

was John Carpenter. Bureau of Prohibition. Died in the line of

duty.” And Jackie caught a glimpse of a wadded piece of green

in Quentin’s hand that he passed to the policeman. “Would you

be interested in viewing the body?”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Mr. Collins.”

Quentin got out of the car and opened the back of the

hearse. Th

e cop splayed the light around inside and it bounced

off the gleaming wood of the casket. “What’s under the black

coverings?”

“Just the fl owers.”

“Poor bastard,” said the cop.

Th

e motorcycles’ barricade pulled back and let them through.

Th

ey drove slowly, like the funeral pro cession they claimed to be,

somber and respectful under the moonlight until the row of cops

was left far behind. Th

en they turned into the cemetery.

Lights fl ickered off the gravestones; some were shiny new

marble, some decaying granite, and a mist swirled between the

markers just above the ground, fl owing like the ghost of a stream.

As the men disembarked from their vehicles, arms loaded down

with whiskey, a disapproving owl hooted twice and the cicadas

whinnied their raw chorus, all singing the same piercing note. A

ruffl

ed cloud fl ew across the moon and there was the warning

rumble of far- off thunder.

Liz and Jackie slid out of the car and followed the men who

carried lanterns aglow in the mist. Th

e door to the Collins mau-

soleum was bolted shut but one of the workmen pried it loose,

and pulled off the vines entwined around the entrance. Th

ey

entered the vault and the bright light of the lanterns fell across

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Lara Parker

the stone walls, and the dirt fl oor of the interior, and bounced

off the coffi

ns.

“Gimme my own still in the woods,” said one of the men

who had a missing front tooth. “Copper kettle and cooper coil.”

“Hell, they’ll get you by the smoke.”

“Th

is sneakin’ around is for the birds.”

“When I saw them cops, I thought we was done for.”

“Aw, those guys are just starters, they don’t pay ’em any-

thing, just give ’em a badge and a gun and send them out with

no trainin’. Th

ey’re more scared o’us than we are o’them.”

When the fi rst coffi

n lid was raised, the peculiar odor of

dust and decay fi lled the space and Quentin said, “What’s the

deal? Th

ey were supposed to be empty.”

Inside was a skeleton, its white shroud wrapped loosely

around the bones. Lit by the lanterns, the grotesque skull glared

at the intruders.

“It’s desecration of a corpse,” whispered one of the men.

“Ah, she won’t mind,” said the other, who had already ap-

proached with several bottles of whiskey. “A bit o’ booze to

enjoy in eternity!”

“It’s a sacrilege to disturb the dead,” whispered Jackie, tak-

ing Liz’s hand and backing away.

“Right. So no one will be looking here.” Th

e man with the

whiskey handed her several bottles. “Scoot them in beside

the others.”

Quentin intervened with a scowl, pushing Liz back. “No,

you girls keep out of the way.”

Liz bit her lip and looked around, her eyes dark. For the fi rst

time since Jackie had met her she looked tense and unhappy.

“Hurry up,” she said.

“Open the other one?”

“Why not?” said Quentin, although he seemed ner vous,

moving restlessly between the car and the chamber, carry ing the

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whiskey. He went to Liz and put an arm around her, pulling her

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to him. “Sorry,” he said. “I know it’s awful. We’ll be gone soon

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enough. Back to the house.” When he kissed her, Jackie’s eyes

sprang with tears.

Th

e second coffi

n was opened. Again there was a body,

wrapped in burlap, reeking of rotted fl esh.

“Th

is one ain’t so old, Capt’n,” one of the man called to

Quentin. “Th

ere’s worms.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he? And he was a Collins, so he won’t be

adverse to carry ing his load.” Again the casket was stuff ed with

liquor, Liz assisting with the unloading mostly for the purpose

of fi nishing, ner vous about being there, turning her face away

when she approached the coffi

n.

But Jackie hung back in the shadows. She knew this mauso-

leum. She and David had been inside it earlier in the day, search-

ing for the portrait. But like everything else in this de cade, it was oddly unfamiliar. Th

ere were four caskets instead of two, the

fl oor was not ankle deep with dry leaves but smoothly swept,

and the candelabras were not piled in the corner in a discarded

heap of metal, but arranged around the caskets, fully tapered.

Th

e dancing shadows from the lanterns and the smell from

the coffi

ns were making her dizzy and she knew she was losing

her bright clarity. Th

e voices in her head were coming back. Icy

fi ngers crept under her clothes and her breath turned shallow.

Her vision blurred and her chest grew tight as she tried to breathe, but some foreboding crept into her mind, a dark dread swimming

like an underwater creature through her consciousness. Th

e lan-

terns swung and the shadows jumped from the fl oor to the ceil-

ing and back again as the men carried the bottles and the kegs

from the car like zombies moving in and out of the lamplight.

Th

e mausoleum was a cave, the humid air like grit in her

mouth, and something was crawling across her scalp. She real-

ized she was staring at the back of the vault where she could see

a lion’s head hanging above a portal bricked over from within.

Th

e lion held a brass ring in its mouth.

Th

e last casket was slammed shut. “Th

at take care of it?” asked

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Quentin.

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Lara Parker

“Hell no, there’s still more, much more. Shall we seek out

another crypt?”

“What’s back here?” Quentin said, pointing to the arched

doorway.

Jackie spoke without knowing, the words fl oating from be-

tween her lips and when they came, waves of darkness entered

her. “It’s not . . . no, not that,” she whispered, and one of the men, whose name was Jake, followed her gaze.

“Th

ere,” he said, “pull that ring.”

“Th

is?” Quentin reached up and gave it a tug. Just as Jackie

had known it would, the stone in the step moved to one side and

the portal slid open.

“Aha!” Jake said. “A secret compartment. And so brilliantly

disguised. How’d you know about that, Duckie?”

But she had said nothing. It had not been her.

“It’s a perfect hideaway. Shall we stow the rest of it in here

and then scram?”

“Well, we can’t take it back to the Blue Whale.”

Quentin smiled at her for the fi rst time. “Lucky guess?”

She trembled and shook her head. “I didn’t mean . . . I don’t

think—” But they had already gone back to the van for more

booze. Quentin stayed, waiting for her to fi nish.

“Something wrong, Sweetheart?” His voice was gentle.

“I don’t think they should.”

“What, dear?”

“Go in there.”

“But we need the hide the whiskey . . .”

When they took the lanterns in the inner sanctum, they

were shocked to fi nd another coffi

n against the far wall draped

in a blanket of thick dust, and wrapped in chains.

“God Almighty, that’s been there a long time. Why the

irons?”

“Must have been some ancient ceremony. It’s an old ceme-

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tery,” said Quentin. “Just leave it. Th

ere’s enough room in the

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vault.”

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Dark Shadows: Wolf Moon Rising

But one of the men, the one with a missing tooth, couldn’t

resist pulling on the chains. “Christ,” he said, “they’re almost

rusted away.”

“Won’t be anything left but bones turned to dust.”

“Yeah, but chains? Must have been a reason. Maybe there’s

something in there besides a body. Something valuable.”

Quentin looked at Jackie and she shook her head. Her eyes

were fl ooding. He turned to the men. “Let’s get out of here be-

fore the police change their minds. We can come back in a week

after all the turmoil has quieted down.”

But the other man was whistling under his breath, “Could

be . . . money . . . or even gold.”

“Come on, Jake,” said Quentin; and reluctantly, two of the

men followed him back to the car.

But it was too late. Th

e last man had already broken the

chains and was lifting the lid. Th

ere was a greedy grin on his

face when he hoisted the lantern and shone the light into the

box.

His cry of alarm ripped the night shadows, and hearing

the call, the entire group ran back to the mausoleum. Th

ey saw

the chain at his feet and the lid pushed back. Th

e man was star-

ing into the coffi

n, eyes bulging.

“What’s eatin’ you?” said one.

“I— I don’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head. His hand

holding the lantern was jerking so hard his fi ngers were twitch-

ing, and he was hovering over the casket, mouth agape.

“It . . . it don’t make no sense.”

Th

e others approached slowly.

“He— he ain’t dead. He’s smooth . . . he’s perfectly preserved.

His clothes ain’t even got any dust on them.”

‘ “Cover him back up!”

“No. We can’t do that. Christ, you sap. He’s been buried

alive!”

“Don’t go near him,” said Quentin.

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“What? No . . .”

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“Don’t look at him.”

Liz moaned and drew back, afraid for the fi rst time, and

hung by the door. But the men pulled forward, drawn by a mor-

bid curiosity. Quentin moved near as well, his hand over his

mouth, and looked down. “It’s true,” he said in a harsh whisper.

“His skin is white as a corpse, he smells of death, but . . . wait . . .

he seems to be breathing . . .”

Dragged by some deep foreboding, Jackie inched closer, and

when she looked in the coffi

n her skin erupted with a prickly

rash. She knew the face, as pale as porcelain except for the eyes

red- rimmed and the lips tinged with blood. “Barnabas,” she

whispered under her breath. “It’s . . . Barnabas.”

But the name meant nothing to the others, and they simply

stared in disbelief.

Th

e lanterns swinging over the corpse fl ickered on his tai-

lored suit and scarlet cravat and cast shadows across his face.

His hands were folded over his breast, and he held a cane in his