Dead Waters (8 page)

Jane hugged me and handed my satchel over. “What happened?” she repeated. “The second you threw yourself over the railing, I took off down the stairs and missed everything.”

“It looked like that woman was doing something to you in the pool, kid,” Connor said, walking over to us. He handed me my jacket, looked down at the pile of stone, and kicked a few pieces around, too. “Interesting. No body.”

“Oh, you noticed?” I said, still catching my breath. “I don’t know what the hell she really is, but basically she was using the pool water to crush me. Maybe she’s some kind of water elemental. . . ?”

Connor shook his head at me. “And this is why we don’t go jumping over high-rise railings after strange women,” he said. His chiding was probably the closest I was going to get to hearing him say that he was glad I was okay.

“Well,
I
thought it was heroic,” Jane said, smiling. “Stupid, but heroic.”

“Thanks,” I said. I brushed her wet hair out of the way and kissed her forehead. “Next time, you get to jump first.”

She hugged me and I hissed as pain flared up my side.

“Careful,” I said.

Jane stepped back quickly, concern on her face. “Are you hurt?”

I pressed along my bruised ribs gently, testing them. “Not too badly,” I said. “More my pride than anything. Drowning in someone’s pool isn’t the way I really pictured myself dying. A vampire, werewolves, maybe, but not this.”

Connor tsk-tsked me.

“What?”

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, heading back toward the door, “before I nominate you for the Departmental Medal of Stupidity.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a real thing or not. I wouldn’t put it past the Department to issue something like that, maybe a dunce cap to make an object lesson out of foolhardy agents. Connor walked off before I had a chance to ask him. All I could do was let Jane help me hobble my way off the patio. Given all our cuts recently, I wondered whose paycheck was going to cover the damage the falling gargoyle had made. I doubted we could expense it.

7

I wasn’t normally one to strip in the partially walled office cube that comprised the space Connor and I shared, but by the time we got back to the Department of Extraordinary Affairs, I hadn’t dried off at all and was shivering from my jump into the pool. Jane left me with Connor and ran off to report to Director Wesker over in Greater & Lesser Arcana as I hung up my satchel to dry out, and then peeled off my suede leather jacket before dropping it into a plastic-lined bin I now kept next to my desk.

Connor looked down at it. “Nice idea, kid. When did you put that there?”

I leaned against our partners desk as I struggled out of my wet Doc Martens, which were now clinging to my feet like they were glued on. “After that ectoplasm in the popcorn-machine incident in that off-Broadway theater,” I said. “My cleaning bills are through the roof, and even before these cuts, the Inspectre stopped letting me expense them. You’d think damage done in the line of duty would be covered . . .”

“I wouldn’t press him, kid.”

“No?” My Docs didn’t want to come off. I undid the laces even more and wiggled off the first one, tossing it in the bin.

“No,” Connor said. “It could be worse.”

“Worse than bagging my clothes up here on a weekly basis and then dragging them to the cleaners on my own dime? How could it be worse?”

“You press the Inspectre on it, and they might start issuing us uniforms. You want to wear a tan jumpsuit with your name stitched over the pocket?”

“Depends,” I said. “Do I get to be Egon? Do I get a Proton Pack?” My other boot came free and I put it with the other one.

“I don’t think so.” Connor pointed to the mountains of files and paperwork piled on both of our desks. It had grown several inches in the few hours we had been gone. “Think of what it takes to even get ballpoint pens from supply. You rip a field-issued jumpsuit and try to requisition a new one? You’ll be roaming the halls in your boxers at least a week waiting.”

“Speaking of which, can you watch our cubicle door? I need to finish getting out of the rest of this stuff.”

Connor turned away. “Gladly. Although why you need to do it here . . .”

“It’s just easier,” I said. I walked around to the work side of my desk, slid the lower-left-hand drawer open, and fished out a dry T-shirt. I pulled off the wet one, threw it on top of my boots, and slid the new one over my head. The front of it read: I BRAKE FOR IMAGINARY CREATURES. “I’m living out of my drawer here.”

Connor laughed. “Now you know how Jane feels at your place.”

His comment stung. I tried to ignore it, but another flare of the tattooist’s way over-the-top emotions hit me. I bit my lip and fought the urge to say something, instead focusing on putting on a dry pair of jeans that were also sitting in the drawer. I slid them on, thankful to be dry once again and forcing the emotions down. “Okay,” I said. “Done.”

Connor turned and gave me a skeptical look.

“What?” I asked.

“Your face, kid. What’s the matter? Did I strike a raw nerve with my Jane comment?”

I sighed. “Yeah, I guess,” I admitted. “That tattooist emotional-baggage thing flared up again.”

I sat down at my desk and Connor walked over to his.

“Look at the bright side,” he said, sitting down. “You probably won’t have to worry about Jane getting the itch to marry you.”

“I won’t?”

“You jumping to conclusions that Jane wanting more drawer space means she wants to move in should land you in a padded room long before that.”

“Comforting,” I said. I set to work writing out the details of the events of the past few hours, almost enjoying the silence while doing it. At least Connor wasn’t jabbing me about my newfound domestic issues with Jane. When my eyes started to blur from all the paperwork, I stopped and gathered my papers. I stood up. “I’m going to run this up to the Inspectre.”

“Go crazy, kid,” Connor said, looking up from his own chaos of paper across from me, “but aren’t you forgetting something?”

I thought for a moment, and then shrugged.

Connor pointed at my bare feet. “No socks, no shoes,” he said. “No service.”

I opened my lower-left-hand drawer once more. “Thanks for the reminder,” I said. “I don’t know where my head’s at. Maybe that water woman squeezed some of my brains out when she was trying to drown me.” Fresh socks and dry boots, and under that, nothing more. I pulled them out and put them on. “Time to restock my wardrobe. Looks like this is all that’s left.”

“Then you better hope you don’t run into anything heading up to the Inspectre’s office,” Connor said.

I stood up, feeling almost human again, the leather of the new boots stiff against my feet. “A wandering monster encounter is highly unlikely. I think I can manage.”

I turned and headed away from our desks, walking off toward the stairs that led to the Inspectre’s office up on the second floor.

“Oh, you say that now,” Connor shouted after me, “but don’t forget where we work.”

I slowed my pace as I walked. Connor had a point. A healthy amount of paranoia about danger lurking around every corner had kept my older partner alive so far, and if there was ever a place full of potentially menacing corners, it was the Department of Extraordinary Affairs.

I found the Inspectre buried in a paperwork mountain all his own when I got to his office. The usually neat and orderly British gentleman’s office was littered with more casework and files than I had ever seen, little piles of manila folders dotting the rich cherrywood finish of the room.

“Sir?” I called out as I stepped into his office. He finished what he was writing before looking up at me, a bit agitated. “I’ve prepared a file on Mason Redfield . . .”

“Dammit, boy,” the Inspectre blustered, standing up. He came out from behind his desk, crossed over to me, and snatched the folder from my hand. “You mean to tell me you’ve been back long enough to write out a case file and didn’t think to come see me first?”

I stepped back, a little surprised by the anger in the Inspectre’s voice. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just thought . . .”

The Inspectre turned away from me and went back to his desk. He threw the folder down, not even bothering to look at it. He breathed in like he was getting ready to yell, but stopped himself. He slid his thumb and index finger under his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“Forgive me,” he said, softening. “Perhaps I didn’t make my request clear enough for urgency in this matter.”

“I was just following standard protocol . . .”

“Of course you were,” he said, waving my words away with his hand. “Bully for you. I trust you have something to report. . . ?”

“Yes,” I said. “My report is . . . in my report.” I pointed at the folder on the desk.

The Inspectre put his hand on it, but made no effort to open it. “I think I would prefer to hear it from you, my boy.”

For the first time I noticed the deep weariness on his face. His eyes were heavier than usual, full of exhaustion.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Of course. When we found Professor Redfield’s body . . .”

The Inspectre raised his hand off the folder in front of him. “Spare me the more gruesome details, my boy. Friends from long ago haunt you the most if you know too many particulars about their passing.”

“Sorry,” I said, picking up the folder and searching my papers for what should and shouldn’t be said.

“No need for apologies,” the Inspectre said, sounding sad this time. “It’s something they simply don’t prepare you for in what passes for training around here.”

I had written so much down, I didn’t know where to start editing, so I closed the folder. “One thing is for sure, sir. Mason Redfield’s death was not of natural causes.” I tried to imagine what it would be like to drown from the inside out like that, but couldn’t. “There were no signs that he struggled. He looked almost . . . peaceful.”

“Good,” the Inspectre said, solemn. He took off his glasses. “That is something. It may seem like a small thing to you, Simon, but when you get to be my age, there is a . . . comfort, I suppose, in the thought of dying peacefully. Truth be told, I never expected to make it past fifty. Then again, neither did Mason.”

Curiosity got the better of me. “You mentioned earlier tonight that the professor was a friend of yours . . . ?”

The Inspectre stood and turned to the display case behind him that took up most of the wall. It was filled with books as well as a few ornamental museum pieces scattered among the shelves. His hand rose, gently gliding along the edge of the top of it. It came to rest on a length of dark polished wood with a thin band of tarnished copper near one end of it. A walking stick. He pulled it down, held it carefully in both hands, and stared down at it, fixated.

“He was more than just a friend,” the Inspectre said. “He was my first partner in the Fraternal Order of Goodness, our older brotherhood of investigators which predates the government-run Department of Extraordinary Affairs by several hundred years.” He tossed the cane to me. “See for yourself, my boy.”

I caught it with both hands and sat myself down in one of the chairs on the other side of the Inspectre’s desk, inspecting the cane as I did so. Along the metal band read the word DAMOCLES. The object crackled with energy in my hands, almost eager to reveal itself to my power like a child wanting to tell about his day at school. There was rich history in this object. With that much power ready to release, sinking into the chair was my best option. I wanted to use my psychometry on the cane, but I didn’t want to fall over from blood-sugar depletion from such a heavily charged object.

I pressed my power into the cane and my mind flashed back through time. It was nighttime in an old graveyard somewhere along the East River. A large jagged fissure in the earth gaped open where grass met the rise of a short, rocky slope where a young Argyle Quimbley was busy fighting his way through a steady stream of pale, ghoulish creatures crawling up out of it. Riding the vision out behind his eyes, I was surprised at how good he was doing—my Other Division boss was kicking ass like it was going out of style, cutting quite a striking and dashing figure. I felt his youth and prowess as a young agent. He was a far cry from the man I knew—muscular and dressed for combat action in khakis and a leather bomber jacket.

Argyle Quimbley slammed the butt of the cane into the gut of one charging creature, and then slid a hidden blade out of its other end and plunged it into the chest of another. The ghoul roared in pain and Argyle Quimbley raised his boot and kicked it free from his sword. He was a swashbuckling dynamo, but as I watched, I realized the Inspectre had a bigger problem than simply cutting them down. The creature that Quimbley had just stabbed in the heart got back on its feet and started after him once again.

“Could you research a little faster, Mason?” Quimbley shouted as he continued to fend off the swarm. “These ghouls don’t seem to be staying down and it would be advantageous to know their weak points. Judging from that last one, I’d say we can rule out the heart.”

Having just been thrust into the mind and body of a young Argyle Quimbley, I had barely taken notice of Mason Redfield standing there. He stood only a few feet away, flipping through a dark green file folder, but looked far less fashionable than Quimbley did. With elbow pads on his tweed jacket, Mason Redfield almost looked like the modern-day version of the Inspectre. A tiny flashlight floated above his head as he pored over the file. His hair hung down across his forehead in a wild mess and he pushed it out of the way as he thumbed through the file.

“I’m reading as fast as I can, Argyle,” he shouted, “but these damn files are out of order.” Mason’s accent was pure American next to the Inspectre’s English tones, although he sounded as if he were trying to affect a passable Clark Gable. Even so, the man sounded flustered and nervous. “It’s like trying to read an encyclopedia in the dark. By the time I assess the proper ecology of ghouls, I suspect we may be good and dead.”

“Now, now,” Argyle said, slashing at two more off to their right. “We’ll have none of that talk while we’re still breathing. You keep reading and I’ll keep fending.”

“Who has the time for all this paperwork these days, I ask you?” Mason sniped. “If the Fraternal Order of Goodness doesn’t watch out, they’re going to kill their membership by sheer weight of paperwork alone.”

Despite the peril of constant fighting all around them, I couldn’t help but smile at that. It was oddly comforting to hear how little that had changed in the past forty years.

Mason continued thumbing through the contents of the folder.

“Hurry up,” Argyle said. “There are more scrabbling about down below. I can hear the nasty buggers.”

Mason looked up, his face going white. “We’re not venturing down there as well, are we?”

Argyle leaned back to dodge a series of claws slashing at his face before he could answer. He stabbed at the ghoul, driving it back but not killing it. “Are we going into the fissure?” he asked, looking around for the next incoming ghoul. “No. Not intentionally, anyway.”

“Good,” Mason said. “For a second I—”

Argyle watched as a dark shadow flew up and out of the fissure. The creature was heading straight for Mason at breakneck speed. Quimbley sidestepped one of the other creatures already engaging him, slicing it in two across its waist as he went, sending both halves of it tumbling back into the fissure. Now free, he ran to help Mason, but judging from his distance, he wouldn’t make it in time. The charging creature blindsided Mason, wrapping its arms around him and tumbling Argyle’s partner to the ground. The tiny hovering flashlight over Mason’s head fell with him, skittering across the ground. As Mason started to struggle, Argyle finally closed the distance and kicked the creature off his partner. With a flick of his wrist, Argyle’s nimble blade slid out into the night, lashing off the creature’s head. Its body dropped in a writhing heap to the ground and, much to Argyle’s happiness, stayed down.