Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA

  I felt angry at the crowd around me. How could all these people be enjoying themselves so much? Didn’t they know I was dying? Well, no, of course they didn’t. That was the point. But I still felt jealous of their happiness, of their casual assumption that they still had years ahead of them. Time to do whatever they wanted. I’d never been scared of death in the field; in the heat of the moment, going head to head with some powerful opponent over something that mattered. But this slow departure from life, having it all taken away from me bit by bit, seemed so horribly unfair.

  I surprised myself then, with a sudden harsh smile. It wasn’t like me to brood. I’d fight my death like I’d fought every other adversary, with everything I had. Because that was what I did. I plunged into the crowd again, greeting familiar faces, exchanging gossip, and quietly slipping in the odd question about Dr DOA. I kept crossing paths with Roxie as we moved back and forth, following the same leads to the same people. No one seemed too surprised that Shaman Bond and Roxie Hazzard should know each other. Shaman was famous for knowing everyone. But I was surprised to discover just how many of our mutual friends and colleagues knew the Roxie of old. And didn’t seem to connect her with Molly Metcalf at all. Or did they know, and were just pretending to be polite? Not for the first time, I wondered how many of the club’s regulars had always known Shaman Bond was also Eddie Drood. And kept quiet, to keep the peace. Everyone wears a false face of some kind at the Wulfshead Club.

  I made my way to the long bar, and ordered my usual ice-cold bottle of Beck’s from one of the many bartenders with exactly the same face. Because they were all clones. The Management ensure loyalty in their staff by growing their own. You really don’t want to know about their retirement plan. You can order any kind of drink at the Wulfshead bar. Succubae’s Tears, Muse’s Breath, and Quetzalcoatl’s Revenge. None of which are trade names. Ponce de Leon’s sparkling water and Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar. Rumour has it the club’s Management keep their bar stock in another dimension. Because they’re afraid of it. My Beck’s went down nice and easy, soothing my throat and easing my aches and pains, and I was surprised to find I’d emptied the bottle. I went to ask for another, and then stopped myself. No telling what booze might do to me in my current condition. I put the empty bottle down on the bar and turned my back on it. I had to be on top of things while I still had things that needed doing.

  I hated having to make such decisions, hated not being able to be effortlessly strong and confident, like I used to be. Just another thing Dr DOA had stolen from me. Just another reason to track him down and take it out on him.

  It occurred to me then that I could just stop here at the Wulfshead. Abandon the chase, give up on my revenge, and spend what time I had left enjoying myself with friends. I could go out easily, among good company. But a cold hard part of me would never accept that. I had been wronged, and I would have my vengeance no matter what it cost me. I put on my smile again and went back into the crowd.

  I moved easily through the closely packed people, letting the crowd’s currents take me where they would, smiling and nodding to people who nodded and smiled at me. Shaman was glad to see everyone, and they were always glad to see him. Because Shaman always knows the best stories and the latest gossip, and is always ready to lend an ear to a new plan, or a heart’s pain. And he’s always good for a laugh. But no matter which conversation I joined, I always found a way to steer it round to Dr DOA. Who was he? Where was he? How could he be contacted?

  But it turned out that as far as most of the club’s patrons were concerned, Dr DOA was just another urban legend of the hidden world. Some people believed in him; some didn’t. Some thought he was the semi-public face of a secret society, so the world wouldn’t be able to work out why they were killing off certain significant people. Others believed he was just a front for a Drood assassination squad. Though others quickly pointed out that the Droods have never been bashful about anything they do. Someone else suggested Dr DOA was a franchise; that someone was secretly funding any number of Dr DOAs, making it possible for anyone to become the anonymous killer, for the right money. And thus have their true motives obscured, hidden behind the mystery that was Dr DOA. I quite liked that idea, but couldn’t believe my family wouldn’t already have known all about it. And done something about it, long ago. We don’t like competition.

  There were all kinds of stories about Dr DOA, and once I’d started the ball rolling, people stumbled over one another to chime in with the ones they’d heard. It was never anything that could be confirmed. He was a man or a woman, a group or an organisation. Or just a mirror for our paranoid times, because someone had to take the blame for all the murders that were never solved. No one in the Wulfshead had ever met him, or known anyone who had, and no one wanted to. And absolutely no one would admit to doing business with him, for fear of reprisals. From his victims’ friends and relatives, or from the man himself. The only thing everyone would agree on was that it was very dangerous to go looking for Dr DOA. People who did tended not to be seen again.

  Finally, reluctantly, I approached Monkton Farley. The two of us go way back, even though we’d never admit it in public. He was currently dressed to the height of Nineteen Twenties fashion, from the elegant pinstripe suit to the immaculate white spats on his gleaming shoes. A handsome-enough fellow, if you could overlook his open disdain for anyone who wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. I stood at the edge of the crowd that had gathered around him. Everyone was listening breathlessly to the details of his latest triumph, the Case of the Disembodied Body. He’d been relating the story when Roxie and I arrived, and he was still telling it now. He seemed no nearer to arriving at a conclusion, so I decided I’d just have to break into his monologue and hope his devoted disciples didn’t strike me down for blasphemy. But when I tried to push my way through, they immediately closed ranks to keep me out. Partly to keep me from interrupting their hero, partly to keep an outsider out. They were the true fans, and only they were entitled to get close to the great man.

  I could have forced my way through them easily enough, but I was being Shaman Bond, so I just looked over the heads of the crowd and caught Farley’s eye. He broke off from his story, sighed quietly, and signalled to his followers to let me through. They moved aside, reluctantly and resentfully, and I nodded easily to Monkton Farley as I strolled through the ranks to stand before him.

  “Shaman,” he said. With the voice of the unjustly put-upon.

  “Hello, Monkton,” I said. “You’re looking very yourself. Wondered if you could help me with something.”

  “What seems to be the problem? Someone stolen your charisma?”

  The crowd laughed loudly. Until I looked thoughtfully around me, and all went quiet again.

  “It’s about Dr DOA,” I said.

  An excited murmur ran through the ranks of admirers. Everyone looked expectantly at Farley to see what he would say.

  “I know the name,” he said. “And the reputation. A very discreet and very dangerous man.”

  “You’re the first to admit he’s more than an urban legend,” I said. “Have you encountered him, yourself?”

  “Not personally, no,” said Farley. “The proof being that I’m still here. You’re about to ask me why I haven’t used my amazing deductive abilities to track him down and bring him to justice, aren’t you? Unfortunately, I can only follow the evidence. And Dr DOA doesn’t leave any. But rest assured; I have no intention of giving up on the man.”

  “Well,” I said, “that’s good to know. Any ideas on useful directions I might look in?”

  “Why would you want to?”

  I fixed him with a look. “Family business.”

  He nodded reluctantly. “I have heard . . . that the poison he uses is always the same. Completely unstoppable because it is not of this world. Which of course suggests that Dr DOA himself might also be not of this earth. I would therefore suggest that Black Heir might
be able to tell you something. Chasing up the loose ends of close encounters is supposed to be its remit, after all.”

  “Thank you, Monkton,” I said. It was a useful suggestion.

  “Anything, for your family,” said Monkton Farley.

  Which was as close as he was ever going to come in public to admitting he was half Drood. I nodded to him and moved away, leaving him to his admirers. All of whom scowled at me as I passed; they were jealous of my personal moment with the great man.

  Roxie was immediately there at my side. “I might have found someone who can help.”

  “Anyone I know?” I said.

  “Yes. But not in a good way.”

  “That covers so many people in my life . . . Which possibly says as much about me as it does about them. Who is it?”

  “Persecution Psmith.”

  “Oh hell.”

  “Precisely.”

  The old Puritan adventurer was sitting alone at the farthest end of the long bar, from where, perched carefully on a bar-stool, he was looking out over the club. One of the few people I know who can do that and still retain their dignity. People around him were careful to maintain a very respectful distance. Partly because he was famously not the sociable sort, and partly because even in a club like the Wulfshead, infamous for attracting any number of genuinely dangerous individuals, everyone still had enough sense to be scared of Persecution Psmith. I wondered why he even came to the club, where he always made a point of drinking alone. Perhaps because even an old gore crow like him still felt the need for company. Sometimes. He turned unhurriedly to watch us approach, even though I was sure no one would have informed him we were coming.

  No one knows how old he is. Stories about his exploits go back centuries. Most of them highly moral tales, in a disturbing sort of way. He still dressed in the Puritan garb of the Seventeenth Century; drab dull black without a trace of colour anywhere, under a swirling night-dark cloak. His long face was drawn and gaunt, etched deep with lines of harsh experience. His dark eyes blazed with a fierce dedication to his cold cause, and his hooked nose and flat mouth gave him the look of some brooding bird of prey. He killed bad people. Or people he decided were bad and needed killing. One of the scarier agents for the Good. Pity and mercy were not in him.

  Roxie stopped in front of him and nodded easily, entirely unimpressed. Psmith managed a small smile for her. I nodded politely and he nodded back, but he kept his attention fixed on Roxie.

  “Still getting into trouble, child?” he said, his voice like a low rumble of thunder.

  “Whenever possible,” said Roxie.

  “You two know each other?” I said. “How . . . No. I don’t want to know.”

  “Very wise,” said Roxie. “Persecution Psmith, allow me to present Shaman Bond.”

  “Your reputation precedes you, Mister Bond,” Psmith said gravely. He didn’t make it sound like a good thing.

  Just meeting Psmith’s cold gaze made me feel guilty. Psmith was famously morally upright, without any weaknesses or trace of sin in his past. And he was always unflinchingly hard on those who had such failings. An uncompromising judge, jury, and executioner. I felt like I wanted to confess to him, for the good of my soul. From Roxie’s easy-going smile, it seemed unlikely she felt the same.

  “What’s that you’re drinking?” I said, nodding to his glass on the bar.

  “Water,” said Psmith.

  “Not even sparkling,” said Roxie. “Puritans . . . Why do you even bother coming in here?”

  “If you’re hunting sinners,” said Psmith, “you have to go where the sinners are.”

  “Not for the company?” I said.

  He surprised me then, by taking the question seriously. He thought for a while, his eyes far away. “I sometimes think I’ve lived too long . . . and outlived all the softer emotions. I am a thing of cold purpose now, and nothing more. Perhaps I come here to remind myself of what it feels like, to be just a man. Because the day I forget that is the day I become as bad as the things I have given my life to hunting.”

  I felt a need to press him on that. “No friends? No family?”

  “No,” said Persecution Psmith. “I gave them all up, to become what I am. I gave up my life in return for more years to fight evil.”

  “Like the Walking Man?” said Roxie.

  “Not really. No.”

  “Was it worth it?” I said. I was genuinely interested as to what his answer would be.

  “Some days I think one thing; sometimes another. Revenge is a harsh mistress. But then, I think both of you already know that, Eddie Drood and Molly Metcalf.”

  “Of course you know,” said Roxie. “You know everything.”

  He smiled briefly again. “Not everything, child. What is it you want from me?”

  “Wait a minute,” said Roxie, glancing at me. “You made a deal . . . for more years. What kind of deal?”

  “Not one I’d recommend,” said Psmith.

  “Drowning men will clutch at the grubbiest of straws,” I said.

  “Only if they give way to despair, and give up on hope,” said Psmith. “Years aren’t everything.”

  “Why would someone like you want to help us?” I said. “Everyone knows you don’t approve of morally borderline types. Like Droods or witches.”

  “Because I cannot turn away from a call for help,” said Psmith.

  “Even from people like us?” said Roxie.

  “Especially from people like you. And because you’re going after Dr DOA. Yes, I’ve heard. And I approve. I can’t find the man; perhaps you, with your connections, can. It would do my old heart good to know someone had taken him down. I suggest you start with the OverNet.”

  Now, that did catch me by surprise. The OverNet is the Internet’s shadowy twin. Where all the darkest and most dangerous sites and contacts can be found. Information too disturbing to be shared with the everyday world. Online translations of the Necronomicon, the Book of Eibon, and the Mysteries of the Wurm. Chat rooms for vampires and ghouls, and aliens looking for hints on how to pass as human. Answers to questions that sane people would know better than to ask. And, supposedly, home to the most powerful search engines available with access to even the most restricted areas. If you can hack your way through the jungle of rumours, half-truths, and deliberate misinformation, there are dreadful truths and wondrous secrets to be found.

  “What do you know about computers?” said Roxie.

  “In my early days, I used a bloodhound’s good nose to hunt down sinners,” said Psmith. “Now I must use the Devil’s tools to locate the Devil’s followers. What has the world come to, when Satanic Churches have their own websites and advertise openly for new members? I am busier than ever, these days—so many souls to save or condemn, and so little time. Sometimes I think I can’t wait for Judgement Day to arrive just so I can get some rest.”

  I decided to take the hint. “Thank you for your help. We’ll be going now.”

  Roxie glowered at Psmith. “Burned any witches lately?”

  “I never burned any witches,” Psmith said calmly. “Though I have hanged quite a few.”

  I took Roxie by the arm and hauled her away, before things could become suddenly and violently unpleasant. You don’t live as long as Persecution Psmith without becoming very hard to kill. Roxie waited till she was sure we were out of his earshot before nodding reluctantly to me.

  “Actually, that wasn’t such a bad idea. Whoever wants to hire Dr DOA must have some means of contacting him. And the OverNet is less ethical and more secure than most when it comes to putting people together.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “But you can bet my family’s computer people are already all over that side of things. If there’s information to be found, they’ll find it. I can’t believe it will be that simple. Dr DOA hasn’t lasted this long by leaving any kind of trail. Monkton F
arley suggested we try Black Heir.”

  Roxie sniffed. “If Black Heir knew anything that important, it would have been put up for sale by now. Even Dr DOA couldn’t poison a whole Government department to keep it quiet.”

  And then we both stopped as the Midnight Masque stepped out of the crowd to block our way. Tall and slender, fashionable as a glossy magazine spread and twice as glamorous, with a burst of peroxide white hair to set off the jet-black featureless mask that covered her whole face. A lady of the evening, or any time of day if you had the money, the Midnight Masque can be anyone your heart desires. Her blank face reminded me uncomfortably of my own golden mask. But hers can change shape to become anyone you want. Even the face you lust after in your most secret dreams.

  “Stop asking questions about Dr DOA,” she said bluntly, in a voice very unlike her usual sultry murmur.

  “Why?” said Roxie, just as bluntly.

  “You stay out of this,” said the Midnight Masque. “This is between me and Shaman.”

  “In your dreams,” said Roxie.

  “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Roxie,” I said to the Midnight Masque.

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it? I hadn’t heard. Anyway, stop asking after Dr DOA! I don’t want you drawing his attention to the Wulfshead and those of us who drink here. You’re putting us all at risk!”

  “Really?” I said. “Even inside the Wulfshead, with all its security and protections?”

  “We can’t live here,” said the Midnight Masque. “We all have to go home, eventually. Who’s to say Dr DOA isn’t in here right now? Moving unseen and unknown, listening to everything we say, making notes and taking names? Deciding who to punish, to make a point?”

  “Oh, grow a pair, Enid,” said Roxie.

  “That’s not my name!” said the Midnight Masque. “That hasn’t been my name for years!”