Stones Unturned (19 page)

She was seriously considering heading next door to the bar, when she heard something. Eve turned back to the shadow beside the trash barrel.

"Is that you?" she asked, leaning toward the pool of inky black. "If it's not, I'm taking off to get a drink, and you can just —"

The beast exploded out of the darkness, pinning her to the ground with its mass. Its skin was as black as the shadows from which it sprang, powerful muscles rippling beneath. She hurled its growling bulk off her, springing to her feet as the nails on her hands morphed to talons.

"Let's go, fucker," she said, studying the creature, not sure she'd ever seen anything quite like it before.

It eyed her from where it had landed, its beady, red eyes shining from within deep pools of shadows that made up its large, blocky head. It whined pathetically, tilting its head to one side; then sniffing the air in her general direction.

"That's it, Fido," she sneered. "Get a good whiff of the bitch that's gonna hand you your balls."

It emitted a strange, garbled sound like it was barking under water. But it did not advance. Instead, it backed up and barked at her again.

Eve hissed, flexing the claws on her elongated hands, preparing to strike.

"What are you doing?" Squire asked, his head and body emerging from the shadows. He was holding a chain and spiked collar in his hand.

Eve stared at him, gaze shifting from the hobgoblin to the slavering shadow beast and back. "This is what we're going to use to track our demon?"

Squire patted the front of his leg, and the large beast galloped over to him, its curled tail tucked between its legs, its strangely shaped ears hanging lower on its large head.

"What did ya do to him?" Squire asked, patting the beast.

"He attacked me," Eve tried to explain.

"Shuck just got a little excited when I told him he was goin' for a walk," Squire explained. "Got away from me before I could put his leash on."

"Shuck?"

"It's his name, and his species." The hobgoblin made baby noises toward the animal, allowing it to lick his face with a tongue that resembled a giant leech engorged with blood. "He's a Black Shuck. A friend let me borrow him."

"That's just disgusting," Eve said, watching as the beast continued to lick Squire's face as he slipped the collar over its enormous head.

"Naw," Squire said affectionately. "He's a good boy, ain't ya Shucky?"

Eve brushed the front of her leather jacket. "It got schmutz all over me," she said, checking out the legs of her jeans.

"It'll be worth a little schmutz once you see what this bad-boy can do," the hobgoblin said, patting the side of the big beast. It sounded like he was beating on a drum.

"I take it shuck are good trackers?"

"The best when you're talkin' about demons," Squire explained. "These guys hate the fuckers. It's a natural instinct they got."

Eve crossed her arms, waiting to be impressed. "Well?"

Squire smiled, holding on to Shuck's leash. He leaned forward and whispered in the animal's ear. "Do ya smell it, boy?" he asked. "Where is it — can ya find the demon for us?"

Shuck suddenly became very alert, its nose raised, sniffing eagerly. Then it began to growl, quickly padding toward the exit.

"See?" Squire said proudly, as he was dragged along behind the beast.

Eve walked quickly behind the pair, curious as to how this would play out. They where heading back toward Beacon Street.

"He's just taking us back to where we started," Eve yelled, scrambling to keep up.

"I don't think so," Squire said.

The looks they were getting were something. People actually tried to stop Squire to ask what kind of dog Shuck was. The animal didn't give him a chance to answer, pulling him along at a good clip. The hobgoblin was practically running, his stubby little legs having a hard time keeping up with the nearly galloping shadow beast.

The scene of the crime had been cleaned up pretty well. Only the crime scene tape would have given away what had happened there, if they hadn't known. Shuck sniffed around a building across from the where the demon had struck and perked up abruptly. With a growl, he leaped over a black, wrought iron fence that separated two buildings.

"Ah shit!" Eve heard Squire yelp.

"What's the matter, Mary?" she said, coming to stand beside him. "Did you lose your doggy?"

Squire stood at the gate, peering through the bars into the darkness. "Nope, there he goes."

Eve looked in the direction of Squire's stubby, pointing finger and saw the black beast climbing, spider-like, up the side of the building.

"He's not really a dog, is he?" Eve said.

"Never said he was." Squire looked around to make sure nobody was watching as he climbed the fence. "I'll meet you up there," he said and dove into a pool of shadow, disappearing from sight.

"Great," she said, stepping back, gazing up toward the roof of the apartment building. Then she leaped over the wrought iron fence and, following Shuck's lead, began to climb up the side of the building.

Eve threw her leg over the top of the roof, arriving just as Squire emerged from a puddle of darkness across from her. "Where is he?" she asked, searching for the animal.

Its flesh was so black it practically blended with the darkness of the night, but they spotted the beast lying down, chewing eagerly on something it had found.

"Whatcha got there, boy?" Squire asked, walking over to the animal.

It growled at him, baring razor sharp teeth.

"Don't you growl at me, you ungrateful mutt!" Squire snapped.

As Eve approached, it glared at her as well, but the animal's growling ceased at once, its long, pointed tail wagging furiously. As if presenting her with a gift, Shuck picked up what it had been gnawing on and brought it to her, dropping it at her feet.

Eve looked down, the smell of death wafting up from the large, bloody pile. "That's skin, isn't it?" She poked the flesh and strips of torn clothing with the pointed toe of her boot.

"It certainly is," Squire said.

"Thought so." Eve looked back at the shuck. It was now sitting down, looking at her adoringly, tail wagging.

It gave her the creeps.

CHAPTER NINE

The headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was located in a nondescript, monolithic concrete structure named after J. Edgar Hoover, its former director. The Washington, D.C., office block's only distinguishing characteristic was the row of American flags — one of each version the nation had ever used — flying from its face. Without the flags, there would have been no way to tell which side was the front.

It was early morning, the sun only beginning to disperse the night's chill, when the ghost of Dr. Graves approached the J. Edgar Hoover Building. He walked invisibly beside Clay, unnoticed by anyone outside and by the agents providing security just inside the front doors.

In a charcoal suit with a stylish blue and red tie, Clay looked dapper as hell. Graves had never seen him in a suit before. Then again, that was Clay's magic, wasn't it? As a shapeshifter, he knew instinctively how to blend into any situation. Dr. Graves had never learned that ability. In his era, it would have been impossible for a man of his race to blend in.

Now, though . . . well, it was a simple thing for a ghost to blend. He simply went unseen.

Under the name Joseph Boudreau, Clay found that he was expected. Special Agent Al Kovalik had put him on a list, but entry into the FBI headquarters obviously required identification. The shapeshifter had a great many identities and documents to prove he was all of those people. During his lifetime, Graves had only ever been himself, so it was somewhat disconcerting for him to be party to all of this deception.

But they were in.

The ghost shadowed Clay all through the building. Security had given "Joseph Boudreau" a plastic pass that he clipped to his lapel. Whatever information Kovalik had given about his visitor, Clay was allowed to continue on his own.

They rode the elevator with a collection of the most sober individuals Graves had ever encountered and two young agents, apparently partners, who were apparently sharing a private joke, given that they kept glancing at one another and snickering. The ghost enjoyed the moment with them. Whatever life existed in a wandering spirit always felt enhanced when in the presence of the pleasure of the living.

Clay caught him smiling and raised an eyebrow in surprise.

Then they were off the elevator and moving through the building again. People in severe suits strode the immaculate halls, but it surprised Graves to find that in large part it seemed an ordinary office environment. People laughed. A secretary had birthday balloons tied to her desk.

Graves paused to study the balloons. When he had first regained awareness after death, even before he truly understood that he had become a specter, certain things had the ability to fascinate him, to lull him into a strange blissful state. Orchestral music. Sleeping humans. Bunches of brightly colored balloons.

Clay coughed into his hand.

The ghost blinked and turned, remembering their purpose. Dr. Graves felt disoriented as he fell in once again behind Clay, moving in a pantomime of walking, though his feet never touched the ground. It disturbed him to learn that he could still drift in that way.

The occurrence remained on his mind as Clay chatted amiably with an attractive woman of Middle Eastern descent — Graves thought perhaps Pakistani — whose desk marked the entrance into Al Kovalik's particular kingdom.

"Yes, Mister Boudreau," the woman said. "Special Agent Kovalik has been expecting you. Just give me a moment."

She excused herself and slipped into Kovalik's office. Half a minute later she emerged, but left the door standing open.

"Go ahead in, sir. Can I get you anything? Coffee? A cold drink?"

"I'm all set, thanks."

The moment Clay went into her boss's office, he was forgotten. The ghost lingered and watched her a moment as she returned to her computer terminal and to her work. The phone rang, and she picked it up, nonsense business chatter, dates, and times followed.

The ghost of Dr. Graves strode past her desk. Clay had closed the door behind him but Graves passed right through it.

" — fantastic surprise to hear from you," a gray-haired man said as he embraced the man he knew as Joe Boudreau.

Clay stood back and held him at arm's length. "You're looking good, Al," he said, and he patted the man on the shoulder before taking a seat in front of the agent's desk.

Kovalik had thin, narrow features and reminded Graves of Jimmy Stewart. He had to be in his early seventies at the least, though only the lines in his face showed his age. His eyes were alight with sprightly intelligence, and he moved like a much younger man.

"And you, as always, look the same, Joe," Kovalik said. A ripple of uneasiness passed across his face. "I'll never get used to that."

Clay shrugged. "It's a gift."

With a laugh, Kovalik slid into his chair and splayed his hands on the desk in front of him. "How've you been keeping, Joe?"

"No complaints. You enjoying the new position?"

A shadow passed over Kovalik's face. He picked up a pen from his desk and idly tapped it against the wood. The smile that came as he shook his head was loaded with regret and cynicism.

"You know, if someone had told me fifty years ago that I would still be in the Bureau at this age, and that I'd be liaison with the CIA and NSA, doing due diligence on synergy to make Homeland Security watchdogs happy, I'd have told them they were nuts."

"No, you wouldn't have," Clay said.

Kovalik raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"You would have said, 'what the hell's synergy? Or due diligence? Who's Homeland Security?'"

The laugh that came out of Kovalik was half a cough and half a snort. "It's good to see you. I mean that. Whatever the hell you really are, Joe, it's good to see you."

Clay smiled. The ghost of Dr. Graves was surprised to find that he seemed to be genuinely fond of this old man. Once upon a time, Kovalik had been tangentially involved with a program that had brainwashed Clay and used him as an assassin, doing government dirty work. But it was obvious he didn't blame Kovalik.

Everyone deserved a second chance in life, or so Graves had always thought. Now he knew that sometimes the second chance came after life was over.

Again, Kovalik tapped his pen. "All right. So much for the mushy reunion. Why are you in D.C., Joe? What can I do for you?"

Clay sat forward in the chair, gazing intently at him. "You can tell me about Erasmus Zarin and the murder of Doctor Graves."

Hearing the words aloud, in a conversation that did not involve him, made the ghost shudder. Graves haunted the office, standing just beside the chair Clay sat in. Kovalik could not see him, but Clay glanced at him from time to time.

Graves watched closely, barely aware that the ectoplasm that comprised his spectral form had been altered. Unconsciously, he had manifested the phantom guns that he often wore. They hung now in holsters beneath his arms.

Kovalik tapped his pen, then dropped it onto the desk. "When you said you had some odd questions for me, I believed you. But that is an exceedingly odd request. May I ask why?"
"Talk to me first, if you don't mind. Then I'll tell you why."

The aging FBI man, who must have had serious pull at the Bureau in order to still be active, but who must also have pissed off a great many people in his career to avoid being made at least deputy director by now, nodded curtly.

"All right." He slid deeper into his chair, hands on the armrests. "But there isn't much to tell, I'm afraid. For the first few years after I joined the Bureau, Zarin remained an enemy of the state. He was one of the most wanted men in America, a total anarchist. Today, we'd call him a terrorist, though he didn't have much of an ideology. At least not that I was aware of.

"This was about a decade after the murder of Leonard Graves, but even then there was a lot of talk about it. The agents I worked with . . . a lot of the older guys had either known Graves or at least known
of
him. The guy was a hero. A legend, really. The pulps had Doc Savage and the Shadow, but we had Leonard Graves. The fact he was black meant you were always going to have some asshole making racist comments. Racism was just the way things were back then. But I don't have to tell you that. You lived it. You know."