Necroscope: The Mobius Murders (17 page)

Which led him to inquire of himself:
Well then, why not
re-
arrange it?
Would that be possible without losing it—without collapsing it entirely—he wondered? Not that any such loss or degradation need be permanent; he could always call it up again in its original form and as often as he desired. But…he was still somewhat in awe of what he had achieved, and perhaps even afraid of it.

Who could say what unforeseen and possibly disastrous event some further experiment might bring about? What if that unknown region beyond the portal was Reality, The Origin, while the physical universe of three-dimensions was a mere offshoot? What if he should mistakenly conjure a spell to
reverse
that status quo as he understood it? And how horrible if he should find himself central to the inversion, helpless in an inchoate, hostile non-environment without recourse to the mathematics and metaphysics which formed the foundation of everything that held meaning for him!

And so, while fully aware that this was something he would be obliged to investigate eventually—that the currently enigmatic but imagined Aladdin’s cave of fantastic functions hidden within or supplementary to his spell was something that
must
be explored, and sooner rather than later,—for the time being he would resist any such temptation. Better safe than sorry…

And meanwhile there were other matters to occupy his mind. For one, he was once again experiencing the pangs of hunger, an inner emptiness, the feeling that he was gradually fading away; and oh-so-
very
soon after the last time he had fed! That was a major concern…but one which he would mitigate in just three days’ time. And in the interim he could find a way to preoccupy himself, perhaps subduing or alleviating something of his needs by rehearsing and improving his lecture notes.

So much for the future, and as for now:

On the point of waking up, and fighting with his bedclothes as his subconscious mind delivered up one last piece of imagery—a disquieting memory from the all too recent past—the great leech stopped struggling and lay still, barely breathing, suddenly rapt upon that
other
unacceptable possibility: that beyond the conjured portals there might be intelligent life! Awake, he had considered it a figment of his imagination; but asleep, even as his dream began to surrender to consciousness, he now found himself once again staring in astonishment into the utter darkness beyond the shimmering frame of that immaterial door—

—And saw, as in the mirror of a rippled pool, a
face
looking back at him! A face whose jaw fell open in shock and horror at what its owner had seen; the face of a man that Hemmings had yet to meet in the flesh—that of the Necroscope, Harry Keogh, of course.

With which the monster drew breath and came snarling awake, glowering all about his room, gradually regaining his composure as the bulk of his dream receded. But as for that face: however blurred, its general outline and contours would remain there in Hemmings’ mind like some menacing phantasm, ever a backdrop and an obstruction to his every mental process: a source of anxiety and uncertainty, and yes, even of fear. And this time it wasn’t about to go away.

For at the end as the face had slowly faded along with Hemmings’ dream, so its brows had gathered in a frown, its eyes had narrowed, and its mien had changed from a look of horror to one of grim, silent accusation…

That same morning, after a sparse breakfast of coffee and toast, the Necroscope also found himself staring down at a blurred image—his own—where he stood on the bank of the bight in the river beneath which his mother’s remains lay buried in silt and weeds. She knew he was there, of course, could sense his living warmth and deadspeak musing; and so said:

Hello, son! I intended to contact you earlier, but you were deeply asleep. You obviously needed it so I left you to it. But yes, we’ve done what you asked of us; alas that the results are all but negative. By which I mean that while we’ve succeeded in seeking out the souls in question, our efforts have been mainly in vain. In other words, while we are convinced that your suspicions are justified, still we can’t definitely validate them.

Harry wasn’t especially disappointed; he already had all he needed by way of evidence, despite that it remained circumstantial; any further corroboration seemed unnecessary, for he fully anticipated that Gordon J. Hemmings’ guilt would become all too murderously clear the moment he actually confronted him, man to monster. But still:

“Good morning, Ma,” he said, in answer to her greeting. And then: “So what have you found out—or maybe I should ask what haven’t you found out? I take it you tried to contact Hemmings’ father, and also Latimer Calloway?”

More than tried!
she told him.
And as I said we succeeded—in part.
Then, with her deadspeak even more subdued, but with a greater depth of feeling:
That’s because there wasn’t much left to work with, Harry.

A statement which, however latent, seemed in itself to bear Hemmings’ signature. And: “Go on,” said the Necroscope, however grimly. “Tell me about it.”

First, as you supposed, we made contact with that evil creature’s father
, she replied.

“He was still there, in the cemetery in Dalkeith? He hadn’t moved on?”

Probably because there wasn’t
enough
of him to move on! We believe that the higher powers that govern access to the Beyond by means of the compelling allure they exert upon the incorporeal souls of the innocent dead…we
believe
they simply failed to understand that he was there at all! They couldn’t hear him, didn’t recognize him! One has to
want
to move on, Harry, before the Beyond will acknowledge, consider, and react to one’s needs in that fashion. But as for Hemmings’ father: he’d lost or been robbed of the ability to want anything!

“And yet you got through to him. How?”

By force of will. We approached him en masse, until finally he heard us. But even so he was unable to answer our questions, for he was even more distant than those poor murdered souls under the sea…by which I mean how they
used
to be, before you spoke to them. Before you, well, galvanized them.

So she knew about that. But:

“It was their wish, Ma!” Harry vias quick to defend himself. “It was how they wanted it. But I know how much it’s cost them, and something of what they’re planning, so I feel I should warn you that I’m not finished with that yet. I gave them my word on it.”

Oh, I didn’t mean to criticize you, Harry
, she replied.
You do what you do because you are the only one who can! An eye for an eye…isn’t that how it goes?

At first unwilling to argue that last, Harry was silent for a moment before answering: “Only if it’s very necessary, if the dead require it, and if I feel I really must participate—and only then if there’s no other way.” (Which wasn’t quite true in every case; and so, in order to change the subject): “Anyway, you told me you got through to the old man. How was that, if he had nothing to say?”

Oh, but he did! But nothing relevant, or perhaps it was. He said only:
‘My son, my son, my son!’
And he kept on saying it—over and over again, growing ever more weak and distant—until at last what was left of his soul was recognized and drawn away to the Beyond. At least, that’s our understanding of what happened.

“So contacting him wasn’t in vain after all,” said the Necroscope, relievedly. “He’s far better off for what you’ve done; moved on to a place where he may even find help to recover something of what was stolen from him. But while in his case we can consider that a worthwhile result, what of Latimer Calloway?”

He sensed his Ma’s deadspeak nod, as she answered:

A different story there, Harry, for there was more of him—more of his soul, his life-force, that we could work with—but not very much more.

“You actually spoke to him, made sense of him?”

Barely
, she replied,
but enough to discover that he’s certain he was murdered, if not by whom. We didn’t tell him of your other investigations, your suspicions; in fact we were lucky to reach him in time, for he had heard the Beyond calling him, and he was ready to move on. But we did explain about you—how you were searching for a loathsome killer—and how much you would appreciate any opportunity to speak to him about it. He said he would wait a while but that you should hurry, because he wasn’t sure how long he could ignore the Beyond’s attraction, its irresistible promise.

“Then I’ll speak to him at once, this morning!” said Harry. “I take it you have the coordinates?”

Of course, son, for I knew you would need them.
Then, after a moment’s pause and just a little regretfully:
Now I fear that we’re almost done, and it may be a while before we can work together again. For from now on until this is over you’ll be very busy. But may I ask how you intend to continue, or more specifically what you’ll do next?

“Oh, but you
know
what I’ll do next!” Harry replied. “After I speak to Calloway—perhaps depending on how that goes—then in all likelihood I’ll be meeting face to face with his murderer!”

To which his Ma made no immediate reply, but Harry felt the wave of fear that washed out from her. And so:

“Now don’t you start worrying before the fact, Ma!” he told her. “You know I won’t be going in blind, all thanks to you and the Great Majority. And besides, there’s something I need to do before that, something I need to play around with.”

You want to…to
play around
with something?

“I meant study, Ma—something I have to study.”

She saw it in his mind.
Your formula?

“No,” the Necroscope shook his head. “I’m talking about
his
formula. That fat, red-faced devil has used the Möbius Continuum—or his version of it—to kill, and I can’t even be sure how many times he’s done it. Only that he’ll do it again if he gets the chance. So this time it has to be like you said: an eye for an eye, and what has worked for him might also work for me.”

But you promise that you’ll be careful—that you’ll be oh-so-very careful?

“Oh, I will. You know I will. But now I’ll be needing those coordinates.”

Almost before Harry finished speaking the coordinates were there in his mind. And a moment later, with nothing left to be said, his footprints in the grass on the rim of the river were all that remained of his visit. As for the Necroscope himself: he was already on his way to a leafy cemetery in Totnes, Devon, and the grave of the late Latimer Calloway…

Apart from an old lady leaving a spray of fresh flowers against a tombstone on the far side of the graveyard, the walled, sunny quarter acre of slabs and plots was empty—at least of living souls.

Not wanting to waste time, and therefore taking a chance on being seen, Harry had left the Continuum at his mother’s coordinates directly in front of Latimer Calloway’s tomb. The accuracy of the coordinates was evident in the simple inscription—Calloway’s name and dates—carved in the raised granite lid of the low-walled pedestal; and with one last glance around the sleepy leaf-dappled cemetery, that was where Harry sat himself down: on the Professor Emeritus’ granite slab itself.