Ghouls of the Miskatonic (The Dark Waters Trilogy) (38 page)

“I heard that,” said Stone.

“You were meant to,” said Minnie, lifting her head from Rex’s shoulder. “The pair of you need to learn some patience instead of getting all riled up. Take a leaf out of Alexander’s book. You don’t see him getting all bent out of shape here.”

“I understand that there is little I can do to affect the outcome of Miss Young’s condition,” said Templeton. “War and its aftermath teaches a man to be sanguine about those things in life he cannot change”

“Rita’s gonna come out of this,” said Minnie, “and when she does, we’ll find out who took her and where they are.”

“And if Amanda dies in the meantime?” snapped Stone.

“Then we did the best we could.”

“That’s not good enough,” said Stone, bunching his fists, and Rex saw the volatile core of this man bubbling close to the surface. He realized he knew very little about Stone’s past, and saw that only an iron discipline kept the wild anger within him in check. “They took my Lydia, and I won’t let them take Amanda, too.”

“And we’re doing everything we can,” soothed Minnie, getting up and standing in front of Stone. She took the Pinkerton agent’s hands and Rex felt a sudden stab of jealousy that surprised him. “But it’s up to Rita now. She’s a strong girl. She managed to escape from the guys that held her prisoner, and that’s not nothing. She’s got guts most of us can only dream about, so I just know she’ll pull through. Okay? Have faith in her, Gabriel. For me.”

Stone nodded and cleared his throat, turning away as Rex saw a glimmer of moisture in his eyes. He took a seat on the opposite side of the bed and folded his arms across his broad chest. Rex let out a breath, feeling calmed by Minnie’s words himself. Rita was a fighter, that much was obvious from the cuts and bruises she’d sustained in her captivity and escape.

He rose from his seat with a yawn.

“I know it’s like hot mud, but anyone want a coffee?” said Rex. “I think I heard them put on a fresh pot.”

Stone and Templeton declined, but Minnie nodded. Rex flashed her a crooked smile and left the room, heading back down the hallway to the nurses’ station. He could smell brewing coffee, and hoped whoever had made the last pot had finished their shift and someone with at least rudimentary coffee-making skills had made this batch. Like cops, journalists were connoisseurs of damn fine cups of coffee, and Rex made no apology for it. The English could keep their tea; coffee was where it was at.

He smiled at the nurses as he passed and filled two cups with steaming coffee from the small drinks area beside the hospital’s entrance. He tossed a few coins into the donations bowl beside the pot. He wasn’t a freeloader, after all. Gathering up the drinks, he turned back toward Rita’s room, and the coffee almost fell from his hands as he saw three figures lurching through the doors of the hospital.

“Holy Christ!” said Rex. “Where have you been, and what the hell happened to you?”

“You’d never believe me if I told you,” said Oliver.

* * *

Leaving word with the nurses to fetch them should Rita awaken or Finn’s condition worsen, they gathered in one of the hospital’s waiting rooms. Rex quickly told Oliver how they feared he had been abducted or worse by the unknown forces behind Arkham’s woes, going on to describe how their hunt for him had led them to Rita.

Oliver introduced Kate Winthrop to the group, explaining in halting terms what had become of them after paying a visit to Finn Edwards’s lodgings. Once again, eyes widened and credulity was stretched by the tale, but such was the earnest sincerity in Oliver’s retelling that no one doubted the truth of his words. And when Kate produced a fragment of strangely iridescent rock that glimmered like no terrestrial stone ever could, the matter was sealed.

“We leapt from the tower and it felt like…like I was being born anew,” said Oliver. “I can’t think of any other way to describe it. When we went through the first time it was horrible, like dying in slow motion, but this was, well, actually quite pleasant. We didn’t fall from the tower, rather it was like stepping through a dazzling waterfall of light. When I could see again, we found ourselves in the Old Arkham Graveyard on Church Street. Finn was terribly hurt, so we made all speed to the hospital.”

“So where do you think you were?” asked Minnie.

“Who knows?” said Kate. “We traveled between worlds, dimensions, time itself. Without the sphere, it’s impossible to know.”

“What happened to the sphere?” asked Alexander. “Do you think the creature took it?”

“I suppose it must have, though without returning to the boarding house I can’t say for sure,” said Oliver. “I imagine the proprietor would be none too pleased to see us return, given the damage that was done to the place.”

“Then our enemies have obtained a powerful weapon,” said Alexander.

The high spirits of the reunion were deflated by that thought, and they sat in silence for a while. Rex was the one who finally broke the mood of quiet despair.

“So what’s next?” he asked. “We won’t get anything out of Rita until she wakes up. How do we proceed from here?”

“I’m heading back to the laboratory with this,” said Kate, brandishing the strange rock. “This might be the key to making my flux stabilizer lock into the resonances of other dimensions.”

“I don’t know what that means, but okay,” said Rex. “Stone?”

“I’m gonna stay with Rita,” said Stone. “Someone needs to keep watch on her in case the bad guys try to come after her again.”

“Makes sense,” agreed Rex. “Alexander?”

“I will continue researching in the library. Perhaps there is something we’re missing, some vital clue that may help us.”

“Sounds good. Minnie, you’re with me. We’ll try and get this written up. I got a feeling we’re getting close. This is almost over, I can feel it.”

Minnie nodded and said, “And what about you, Oliver? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to Arkham Asylum to talk to Henry,” said Oliver. “If he is involved with any of this, I intend to get the truth from him one way or the other.”

* * *

Oliver pulled up in front of Arkham Asylum, parking in the shadow of the tower rising from the central block. Once, it had intimidated him with its looming presence, but after what he had seen in the other world with Kate and Finn, it seemed a pitiful, inconsequential thing now. Truly the monuments of men were nothing compared to the titanic geometries of the universe. How minute were the works of the human race, confined to their small rock in the solar system, when alien intelligences, vaster than comprehension, could walk between galaxies in the blink of an eye.

Yet as Oliver looked at the tower, the molded finial, the leering gargoyles, and the delicate carvings around the lancet windows, he knew that it wasn’t the scale of man’s endeavors that was important, it was that they were
made at all
. Yes, the universe was a colossal wilderness, uncaring and impartial in its infinite procession, but that did not lessen the achievements won in such a place.

It magnified them.

Oliver realized in that moment, as the twilight shadows crept over the stonework of the building, that no matter how small their chances of survival were, no matter how monstrous their foes might be, it was
always
worth fighting. The point was not whether a victory could be won, but that a fight was made at all.

With a surety to his stride that had never existed before, Oliver marched up to the front door of Arkham Asylum and rang the bell repeatedly until a sour-faced Monroe answered the summons.

“I heard you the first damn time,” he snarled.

“Then why was I waiting for so long?” said Oliver, sweeping past the man and signing in at the desk. The orderly behind the desk flashed a questioning glance at Monroe, and the man shrugged.
 

“Henry Cartwright,” said Oliver. “Take me to him. Now.”

“Hey, you can’t just walk in here and bark orders at me, you know,” said Monroe with petulant belligerence.

“No?” said Oliver. “I am a professor at Miskatonic University, and a close friend of Dr. Hardstrom. Do you
really
want to stop me from seeing my friend?”

It was a bluff, but a calculated one, and Oliver had a feeling that Monroe wasn’t a man of any particular strength of character. He had the look of a man who enjoyed his job for all the wrong reasons, a petty man of spite. A man of whom Oliver had always been wary, but now didn’t fear at all.

“Uh, no, Professor Grayson,” said Monroe, taking a ring of keys from his belt and unlocking the door to the patient wards. Oliver followed behind, a newfound confidence evident in his stature, as Monroe led him through the gloomy hallways and locked doors of the asylum. Oliver remembered the unease that always dogged him in these corridors, but having tasted a measure of the strangeness of the world beyond, he knew now that his mind was far stronger than he had given it credit.

Stronger, but not without its limits
, he reminded himself.

Monroe unlocked the door to Henry’s cell and pulled it open.

“Do you want me in with you?” he asked. “I mean, he’s been a bit active of late.”

“No,” said Oliver. “I don’t want you in there. For your own protection, it’s better if you don’t hear what we have to talk about.”

“My own protection?” said Monroe.

“Exactly so,” said Oliver, entering the room and closing the door behind him.

* * *

Henry sat perched on the end of his bed, his face hanging in forlorn, catatonic repose. The drab hospital linens hung from his spare frame, and Oliver tried to reconcile his feelings toward his old friend. The things he had learned of Henry’s actions during the war irrevocably colored Oliver’s memories, yet still a suspicion lingered that Henry was innocent of such terrible crimes.

As frail and broken as Henry looked, it was an improvement on the restraints and chemical confinement he had been subject to upon Oliver’s last visit. Oliver saw the bandages around Henry’s wrists and at the side of his neck, remembering Dr. Hardstrom’s talk of suicide attempts.

He sat on the bed next to Henry and said, “Henry, it’s Oliver. Can you hear me?”

Though he had given no outward sign of his awareness of Oliver’s presence at first, Henry slowly nodded, the movement all but imperceptible. Oliver thought he saw a faint glimmer in his eyes, like a single candle in a darkened church, but it vanished almost as soon as he saw it.

“I’m sorry it’s been a while since I’ve come to see you, Henry, but a lot has been happening in Arkham recently,” said Oliver. “Events that you might be able to shed some light upon. Young girls are going missing, and ghoulish creatures are eating their flesh.”

Was that a flicker of recognition? Guilt?

“I know what you did in the war, Henry. I know about Château-Thierry. I know about Belleau Wood and Hill 142. I know about the Comte d’Erlette and his books. Alexander told me what happened over in France, and…and though I can’t say I understand it all, I know now how severe a toll such books can take on a man’s mind.”

At the mention of his wartime exploits, Henry looked up, the lone spark in his eye flaring to become a smoldering ember. His face took on a measure of animation, the slack, sightless gaze now turning to focus upon Oliver.

“I tried to stop it,” said Henry, a look of painful devastation engulfing his features. “The words…they wouldn’t stop. I could feel them crawling inside me, pushing up my throat, weighing on my tongue, and pressing against my teeth. They
wanted
to be said, and I couldn’t help it.”

Oliver put his hand on Henry’s arm. Henry recoiled from the touch, pushing himself to the far corner of the bed, but not before Oliver realized Henry was crying.

“Mustn’t touch me,” cried Henry. “The fireflies will come down from the sun and burn you. They burn everything. I saw it. I saw them fall and it burned the wood. It burned it to the ground. I tried to stop it, but it was too late…”

Oliver took a deep breath. To understand Henry’s madness was a step forward, but knowing the things he knew now, he wasn’t sure it was a step he was happy to have taken. To look at this pitiful figure and know he had been privy to such fiery annihilation was proving harder than Oliver had imagined.

“And after the war, when you came home,” said Oliver. “What happened then?”

Henry looked at Oliver, as though there was a measure of understanding flowing between them. Perhaps this was what it had taken to unlock Henry’s mania, a tiny wedge of inside knowledge that
 
could gradually pry open the prison of his thoughts.

“Tell me about the ghouls, Henry,” said Oliver. “Tell me why they came back with you.”

Henry buried his head in his hands, his chest heaving as he sobbed. He shook his head.

“Please, Henry,” begged Oliver. “People are dying. There’s a young girl out there who will be murdered if we don’t find her soon. Her name is Amanda, and you can help us find her before it’s too late. Whatever you can tell me might help us, so please speak to me. Who is the priest in the red robes? Did you teach someone else how to create these monsters?”

“I can’t. I don’t know. I saw them, but they knew…they already knew.”

“You saw them? Who? Tell me, Henry, who did you see?”

“The ghouls!” cried Henry. “I found their lair and saw the words written there! I saw what had become of them, but they were too far gone to stop. I ran and sought the rites to destroy them, but the wrong words came out. I opened the damned books, but there was a paper where there shouldn’t have been a paper. Words I didn’t want to read, but which printed themselves on my eyes! I tried not to say them, but they spilled out, no matter what I did. I ran. I tried to seal up my mouth with needle and thread, but the words burned away the stitches. Everywhere I went I saw the fire! Oh God, it was following me. I tried to stop, to push my hand so far down my throat the words couldn’t come out, but they kept coming! I was going to burn the world!”

Henry’s words made little sense to Oliver, and he reached out to him before remembering that would be a bad idea. Henry’s fingers gouged at his face, leaving angry red wheals down his cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot and spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth.