“It isn’t. My men and I are running ourselves into the ground trying to find something, anything, that might open up the case, but we’ve got damn all to show for our efforts. No clues, no motives, no suspects. Just bodies. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Old Father Time has locked himself away in the Gallery of Bone, and won’t see anyone. Not a word of explanation, never mind an apology. Just a short written warning, left with that punk girl who lives with him.”
“A warning?” Mirren sat forward in his chair, something like life coming back into his strained features. “What did it say?”
“Beware the Wild Childe. That’s all. Does it mean anything to you?”
“No,” said Mirren, sitting back in his chair again. “I can’t say it does.”
He looked older suddenly, as well as exhausted, and Erikson felt a fleeting sympathy for the man. Whatever Mirren’s problem was, it had clearly taken a lot out of him. Erikson began to wonder if this might not be a wasted journey after all. Something had happened here, something bad enough to scare ten years off a man who dealt with the dead every day for fun. What could scare a man like that? Erikson decided to keep talking, and see where it led him.
“I’ve got my people working in the Libraries, and talking to various Powers in the town, trying to track down what this Wild Childe might be, but so far we’ve turned up nothing. I can’t even get two answers the same as to why Old Father Time might have decided to isolate himself from the town. As far as we can tell, it’s never happened before.”
Mirren nodded slowly. “How long has Time been incommunicado?”
“Nearly twelve hours. His automatons are still out and about, though; I’m getting reports of them turning up all over the place. Even had one out at the site of the latest murder, while the body was still warm. You won’t have heard about this one yet. Keith January. Psychic Investigator from a series of stories in the late sixties. Never really caught on, and hasn’t been reprinted since. He was found dead in his own front room. Put up a pretty good fight from the look of it. The room was a mess. My people are going over it with a fine tooth comb. We’ll find something this time. A thread from a piece of clothing, mud from the killer’s shoe. Something.”
“Did you know him, Sheriff?”
“Yes. I knew him. Worked with him on a few cases. Pleasant sort. Got a few results I might not have, without his help. I’d have a drink with him, now and then. I was round at his place just a few nights ago, sharing a drink. Talking about this and that. Now he’s dead, and I don’t seem to be able to do a damn thing about it. All my years of training, all my experience, and I can’t even find my friend’s murderer.”
“Was there anything… unusual, about this murder?”
“Yeah. No sign of a forced entry, which suggests the victim knew his murderer. Also, Jack Fetch was there. Turned up not long after the automaton. Didn’t do anything. Just stood there, watching, and scaring the shit out of my people. That was unusual. The scarecrow usually only turns up when there’s unpleasantness to be done. The more I think about that, the less I like it. Time’s hiding, and Fetch is on the loose. It must mean something…”
They sat looking at each other for a while, across the crackling fire. Erikson felt a little embarrassed at having opened up so much in front of Mirren. It wasn’t as though they were friends. Just acquaintances. He didn’t think Mirren had any friends. He wasn’t what you’d call outgoing. But Erikson needed to talk to someone. It was either that, or explode.
“Can I offer you a drink, Sheriff?” said Mirren abruptly. “I could do with one, and I don’t like to drink alone. Bad habit for a doctor to get into.”
“I wouldn’t say no to a small glass of something, if you’re offering,” said Erikson, careful to keep his voice casual and easy.
Mirren put aside his shotgun, got up and quickly produced two brandy glasses and a decanter from an ornate wooden cabinet. He poured out two generous measures with steady, controlled hands, and brought them back to the fireplace. A log cracked in the fire, and Mirren jumped, just a little. He handed one glass to Erikson, sat down carefully again, and put the shotgun back across his knees, almost absently. He gently swirled the brandy around in the glass to release the bouquet, and then sipped approvingly. Erikson tried his. He didn’t know much about brandy, but he knew an expensive one when he tasted it. He had to stop himself from emptying the glass in quick swallows. He didn’t want to look unappreciative.
“Tell me about the town,” said Mirren. “I know; you’re waiting for me to get to the point, and wondering if I’m just putting off the moment when I’ll have to tell you why you’re here. Well, perhaps I am, partly, but please believe me, I have a reason for asking these questions. What is the town’s mood, this evening?”
“Scared,” said Erikson flatly. “Rattled. People are starting to panic. There’s never been anything like this in Shadows Fall before. Murders just don’t happen here. There are supposed to be forces working in the town to keep us safe from things like that; if we can’t depend on them any more, what else might we be vulnerable to? Wait till people find out that Time’s locked himself away. It’ll really hit the fan, then.
“Some people have already tried to leave the town. They didn’t get far. When Time dropped out of sight, barriers came up all around the town. For the moment, no one can get in or out. The Mayor is putting the pressure on me, because the town Council is putting the pressure on her, but then, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Doctor? The only useful idea the Council’s come up with is to arrest James Hart, presumably on general principles. It’s not a bad idea. Unfortunately, Hart has disappeared. Dug himself a hole, climbed down into it, and pulled it in after him. You know what I’ve been reduced to, Doctor? As soon as I leave here, I’m going down to Suzanne’s place, by the river, and have her read the Cards for me. Maybe she can at least point me in the right direction.
“Look, Doctor; I’ve been very patient, but this is as far as I go. Either you get to the meat of the matter and tell me what the hell I’m doing here, or I’m leaving. And I won’t be back.”
Mirren sighed, and took a long drink from his glass. “Something bad is coming, Sheriff. Something very powerful and quite deadly. Strong enough to raze this town to rubble. I’m not going to tell you how I know; you wouldn’t approve. Draw your own conclusions. Just believe me when I say the whole town is under threat. You’re going to have to start making decisions about how best to defend the town. Some parts may have to be abandoned, to protect others. And Sheriff; you don’t have much time. The clock is running.”
Erikson frowned, but kept his voice scrupulously polite. “Can you be more specific about the nature of this threat?”
“No, I can’t. But the threat is real. You must believe me.”
“And that’s what you brought me here to tell me? Something bad is coming? Doctor; I hope to get more than that from Suzanne’s bloody Cards!”
“That’s not all I brought you here for, Sheriff. I suppose the bottom line is… I’m scared. You see, I can’t afford to die. Not yet. If I die, the dead are waiting for me. I’ve done… questionable things, in the pursuit of knowledge, and the dead will make me pay. Already things are starting to go wrong. You’ve read my report on what happened when I tried to raise Oliver Lando’s spirit for Mayor Frazier, so that we could ask it questions about who killed it. Something else came in its place. Something old and awful and very powerful. I haven’t been able to perform a successful ritual since, but… things have started appearing anyway, without my summoning them.
“They haven’t been able to break through my protections yet; I’ve spent a good many years making this home and its grounds secure. I’m not a fool. I knew the dangers. But I’m starting to see things. I look in the mirror and something else looks back at me. Things come and go at the edges of my vision, laughing and whispering. I hear voices at night, and footsteps outside my bedroom door. They’re coming for me, Sheriff. The dead are coming to take me back with them.”
Erikson got to his feet, and Mirren rose uncertainly to his. Erikson looked at him expressionlessly. “I don’t see what I can do to help, Doctor. The dead are out of my jurisdiction.”
“You can take me into protective custody! I want full police protection. There are half a dozen major sorcerers working for or with the Police Department; they could set up a ring of major league defences that would keep anything out. At the very least that should buy me some time to figure out what to do next. There are things I can tell you, Sheriff. I told you about the coming threat; surely you owe me something for that!”
“For a vague feeling that some force you can’t name or describe is heading our way? Doctor; my sorcerers and Deputies are all working sixteen-hour days and more on the murder investigation, and I need every one of them. And they need me. I’ve spent too long here as it is. I can put you in touch with some private protection agencies, but I’ll warn you, there’s a big demand on their services just at the moment. Now I really must be going.”
He realized he was still holding his glass in his hand, and drained the last of the brandy. It left a trail of warmth behind it as it went down, but it did nothing to touch the bone-deep cold and weariness that was always with him now. In the past, he’d always had the booze to lean on when things got rough, but these days he didn’t even have that. He didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not. He put the empty glass down on the arm of his chair and looked coldly at Mirren.
“You made your own bed, Doctor, now it’s up to you to lie in it. I told you often enough your nasty little hobby would turn around and bite you one of these days. It occurs to me your best bet would be to find yourself an understanding church and ask for Sanctuary. Those kind of people tend to be more forgiving than me. Maybe they can protect you, if you’re serious about regretting what you’ve done. If you’re not, then you’re on your own, Doctor. Don’t bother to show me out. I can find my own way.”
He strode out of the study and down the great hall without once looking back. He’d never liked Mirren, and felt obscurely guilty about not feeling sorry for the man. But if half the rumours he’d heard about Mirren were true, then he deserved every damned thing that was coming his way. He let himself out, and pulled the heavy door shut behind him. The gardens seemed full of restless movement, with shaking branches and loud rustlings. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw quick, furtive shadows stirring at the edges of the path. Erikson smiled coldly, rested his hand on his belt near his gun, and walked slowly but steadily down the path and out of the front gate.
Something bad is coming… I’ve got news for you, Doc. I think it’s already here.
Back in his study, Mirren sat alone before the fire, his shotgun forgotten in his hands. The outsiders would reach the town soon, bringing death and destruction with them, and then that fool of a Sheriff would get what was coming to him. Him, and a lot of other people who thought they were in charge here. The Warriors had promised him that, in return for his work on their behalf. But they’d better get here soon, or their promises of protection wouldn’t mean a thing. The Sheriff deserved everything that was going to happen to him, and his precious town. He’d had his chance. If Erikson had agreed to protect him, he would have told him all about his dealings with the outsiders. There might still have been enough time left to set up some kind of defence. But now the town and the Sheriff had abandoned him, and he was all alone, as usual. Had he really done anything that was so bad? All he’d ever wanted was the truth… and perhaps a little company. That was why he’d made his deal with the Warriors. They’d offered him access to centuries of accumulated mystic knowledge. How could he have turned that down? Mirren shivered, despite the warmth of the fire. He’d risked so much, including his soul, but if the Warriors of the Cross didn’t get here soon, it would all have been for nothing. The dead were coming for him, and they wouldn’t take no for an answer.
—
As a rule, Derek and Clive Manderville didn’t tend towards doing much in a hurry. As gravediggers and general handymen, or Cemetery Technicians, as their mother preferred to put it, their work tended to be sporadic and leisurely. When you weren’t waiting for a funeral service to finish, or a storm to blow over, there was still plenty of time for the odd philosophical discussion or a crafty drag on a hand-rolled. Neverthless, the brothers Manderville could still act quickly when the need arose, and at present the speed with which they were packing two suitcases would have startled even an observer from the Guinness Book of Records. Clothes, toiletries and other essentials were being thrown in the direction of the suitcases with quite astonishing speed and accuracy. In short, Derek and Clive could have packed for the Olympics.
This was not their preferred mode of existence, in or out of work, but the brothers Manderville were more than capable of recognizing a threat to their continued livelihood, especially when it knocked them to the ground, planted a metaphorical knee on their chest and started growling right in their faces. They also had no difficulty in deciding how to meet such a crisis. They were panicking.
Derek and Clive lived with their mother in a pleasant little house overlooking All Souls cemetery. The view wasn’t up to much, but at least it meant they didn’t have far to go to work in the morning. They had good jobs, excellent health, and a secure if limited future. They were both young, in their early and mid-twenties respectively, and were tall, muscular and handsome in a way that had fluttered several female hearts, and lifted a few skirts into the bargain. Money wasn’t exactly flowing in their direction, but they weren’t short of the price of a pint either. So basically, all things considered, they should have been happy with their lot. On top of the world, so to speak. Instead, they had left work early, run all the way home, and were presently up in their bedroom packing two suitcases at speed, prior to making a moonlight flit.
Of course, since it was barely mid-afternoon, the moonlight part would have to go by the board. Flight was the important part, and they were all for it, as soon as humanly possible. Unfortunately, the packing wasn’t going particularly well. They were supposed to be taking only the barest essentials, but Derek and Clive were having great difficulties agreeing on what they couldn’t live without. They’d been packing for almost half an hour now, and still didn’t have a lot to show for it. Tempers were growing strained. They’d both started snatching things out of each other’s suitcase, and taken to breathing hard through flared nostrils. Clive was wearing his Deep Fix Live Tour T-shirt, and a pair of jeans so filthy they could have walked to the laundry room on their own. Derek, on the other hand, had taken the time to change into his best suit, complete with shirt and tie. He couldn’t do up all the buttons on the former, and the latter was half strangling him, but at least he’d made the effort.
“At least I’m not going to make my getaway looking like a tailor’s dummy,” said Clive, cuttingly. “We’ve buried people who looked more at ease in a suit than you do.”
“If we don’t get a move on,” said Derek scathingly, “Someone will be burying us, with or without a suit, and irregardless of whether we happen to be still breathing at the time.” He paused for a moment, rather pleased with the irregardless. It wasn’t a word you got to use often. “The suit is a disguise, right? Who’s going to expect to see me in a suit?”
He put on a pair of dark glasses, to add to the effect. Clive sniffed, unimpressed. “Great. Now you look like a spy. The whole point of this exercise is to get out of town without being spotted, remember? You go out looking like that, and everyone we know will be coming up to us and asking who’s died in the family.”
“If you were dressed up too, they wouldn’t be able to recognize us,” said Derek patiently. “What I thought was, you could dress up in some of Mum’s old clothes, and we could pretend to be man and wife.”
Clive looked at him dangerously. “You’re not turning funny, are you?”
“All right, all right! It was just an idea!”
They both broke off as their mother came in. Mrs Manderville was
wearing a nun’s habit and wimple, as usual, and being both rather short and somewhat dumpy, resembled nothing so much as a motherly penguin. She wasn’t what you’d call religious, but she’d been dressing as a nun ever since her husband died three years previously. She was carrying a tray with two tall glasses of lemonade on it. The brothers looked at the lemonade, and winced.
“Here you are, dears,” said Mrs Manderville cheerfully. “I’ve brought you both a nice cool glass of lemonade.”
“Thanks, Mum,” said Derek and Clive together. They took a glass each and stood there holding them awkwardly.
Mrs Manderville beamed at them both, blinked at the open suitcases on the bed, and then turned and left, happily humming an old Country and Western song. Mrs Manderville liked Country and Western. She was never happier than when singing along with someone else’s tale of heartbreak and suffering. Basically, Mrs Manderville lived in a world all her own, where she didn’t have to remember her husband was dead, and just visited the real world on occasion to make sure her boys were all right. They’d told her they were leaving several times, but it hadn’t taken. She tended not to hear things she didn’t want to. A lot of people are like that, but Mrs Manderville had raised it to an art form. Derek and Clive waited until the door had closed behind her, and then put the glasses of lemonade down on the dresser next to the six other glasses she’d already brought them. Once Mrs Manderville got an idea in her head, there was no shifting it. Derek glared at Clive, who glared right back at him. Derek sighed heavily.
“Look; we don’t have time to argue. The Warriors are coming, and our continued good health depends on us being a comfortably far distance away from Shadows Fall when they get here.”
“Are you sure they’re coming?”
“Does the Pope crap in the woods? They’ll be banging on our door sometime in the next twenty-four hours, and when it happens I for one intend to be out. They think we’ve been working on their behalf all these months, preparing the way for their invasion of the town. They are in fact presently labouring under the misapprehension that we have been diligently sabotaging the town’s defences all this time, in return for the not inconsiderable amounts of money they paid us. In advance, the fools. They are not going to be at all pleased when they get here and find we have in fact done naff all to earn it. They think we are politically committed ideological terrorists. They are not going to be at all impressed by two Cemetery Technicians who still live with their mother. I don’t know about you, but I am heading for the nearest horizon.”