Chapter 43 #2
He had always found the Bones tomb disappointing in its ambiance.
The frescoes and memento mori added a certain macabre air; the rooms upstairs were lined with jars of viscera, the most valuable stored away in the old vault.
But there was a lack of grandeur and thematic organization, which didn’t match up to the society’s prestige.
The ritual room was located in a catacomb beneath the courtyard garden.
It was a reassembled temple transported from southern Greece and dedicated to Eutopia, but it was anchored by a giant ziggurat made of amber that held a Roman sarcophagus found near Hadrian’s Villa.
The delegates went by names like Demosthenes, Odin, and Baal, as if they’d been drawn out of a mytho-historical hat.
They’d been the first society and so they’d built as they went, but possible murder aside, the muddled potpourri of references made Darlington want to knock the whole thing down and force them to start over.
The other members of the current delegation were straggling in, exchanging casual greetings. It was clear they hadn’t taken the meeting seriously, just as Montrose hadn’t before Turner introduced himself.
“Everyone settle,” Montrose said as the delegates claimed armchairs and spots on the floor. “We have not only Virgil with us tonight, but Centurion as well.”
Everyone stilled. It was as if the delegation president had fired a warning shot in the air. The societies dealt with Dante and Virgil, rarely with Oculus, and never with Centurion, the most direct connection to the people of New Haven. All part of the illusion of accountability.
Turner took a stack of index cards from his pocket. “Hand these around. You’ll need something to write with.”
Montrose motioned to Wally Chu, and the editor of the Daily popped up to retrieve a canister of pens from one of the cabinets.
Turner sat comfortably in a chair by the fire, but Darlington stayed standing.
“This is simple,” the detective said. “I’d like to know where all of you were last Tuesday and Wednesday. You can be brief, but I want a complete timeline.” Their glances pinged around the room. “Write it down. With your names.”
Janey Sarkissian, a political science major and probable valedictorian, said, “Is this binding in some way?”
“Are you planning to lie?” Turner asked.
Montrose leaned forward. “Are we being interrogated?”
“If this were an interrogation, we’d be down at the station, and I’d have to read you your rights. Surely all you future federal prosecutors and Supreme Court justices know that, though.”
“If we can just answer the detective’s questions, we can lay this all to rest,” Darlington said.
“But what is this about?” insisted Montrose.
“Nothing,” Darlington said. “Just paperwork.”
“A dead girl,” said Turner.
It was a grenade thrown into the room. Everyone should have started talking at once. Montrose should have been on his feet. But they all went quiet.
“You think we had something to do with a murder?” Janey asked.
“I didn’t say murder,” Turner said. “Accidents happen all the time.”
Silence again.
Wally raised his hand. “I don’t think this is appropriate. We should have lawyers here or the alumni or something.”
“You’re not suspects,” said Turner. “Although you’re acting like you are.”
“That isn’t fair,” Montrose objected.
Turner’s disdain was palpable. “A young woman is dead. What do you suppose would be fair?”
“None of us had anything to do with a girl getting hurt,” Montrose said.
“How can you possibly know that? I haven’t even told you her name.”
“Because no one here is that kind of person!”
“And who is?”
“Who is what?” Montrose sputtered.
“That kind of person.”
Now Montrose did stand and he turned his anger on Darlington. “What is all of this? Why are we being treated like criminals?”
Turner laughed. “I think you’re confused about how we treat criminals.”
Darlington spread his hands in a peacemaking gesture. “He just wants to know where everyone was, to see if anyone had contact with the victim. He’s trying to establish a timeline. He’s not accusing anyone of anything.”
“It feels like he is,” someone complained.
Montrose folded his arms. “Why would you think we’re involved in the death of some random girl? If you want us providing … alibis or whatever, we deserve to know what’s going on.”
“That seems fair,” Darlington said diplomatically.
Turner looked around the room. “I’d hate to be unfair. There were herbs in her stomach. Parsley. Geranium root.”
“That’s all?” Montrose said, a small smile forming on his lips.
“Those are used in prognostications, aren’t they?” Turner asked.
“Yeah, but did she have a big scar on her belly? Darlington could have told you a victima would.”
“That’s true,” Darlington said.
Montrose grinned. “See?”
“Although…” Darlington mused, “there are magical ways to make a wound disappear. Right, Montrose?”
The smile vanished.
“I’m not doing this,” Janey said, setting the blank card in front of her.
“Me neither,” Wally agreed.
One by one they pushed away their cards and set their pens down, some with defiance, others with trepidation. But it didn’t matter. In the quiet he could hear the faint patter of paws in the hall. His hound had returned.
“What an unexpected development,” Turner said dryly. He stretched and rose. “Thanks for your time. It’s been illuminating.”
“We’re going to speak to the alumni about this,” Montrose said as he followed them down the hall.
Darlington lowered the lead and let the hound slide its head into the loop. “Do you think that’s wise?”
Montrose threw open the kitchen door. “This was humiliating and totally uncalled for and I think you both know that.”
Turner strolled into the afternoon sunshine. “You should call them right now. You can put me on the line. If they know what you’re up to, they’re not going to be happy your bumbling got Lethe and the NHPD sniffing around. And if they don’t know…”
Darlington read the cue. “Well, if they don’t know, you’re in a hole so deep, you’re never climbing out.”
Montrose slammed the door in their faces.
“Think he’s calling the alumni?” Darlington asked.
“No, I do not.”
Only when they were inside the car did Darlington turn back to the jackal and give its ears a scratch. “What did you find?”
Its mouth popped open. A tiny bit of silver sat on its lolling pink tongue.
Darlington extracted it, then used his handkerchief to wipe away the drool.
“It’s an airplane,” he said with some disappointment. He hadn’t been sure what the hound would retrieve, but he had certainly hoped for more. “Maybe they never brought her to the tomb.”
Turner’s expression was troubled in the overhead light.
Silently he drew Kylie’s file from his briefcase and flipped it open to the back page: an evidence log.
It listed Kylie’s clothes, the barrettes that had still been in her hair, the imitation-diamond earrings in her ears—and a silver charm bracelet.
“She was there,” said Turner. “She was there and then she was dead.”
Darlington held the little airplane in his palm.
He couldn’t know why Kylie had chosen it.
Maybe it was a gift from a friend. Or maybe it was a bit of hope she’d bought for herself, a promise of travel, a broader world, a better life.
He didn’t believe the Bonesmen had meant to kill her.
The prognostication had gone wrong. They panicked.
They didn’t have a chance to take her to Reiter, so they’d dropped her into the Sound.
Careless or cruel? He wasn’t sure he knew the difference anymore.
How many dead? How many drifters and dealers and vagrants and runaways?
How many lonely old women and friendless men?
Reiter was a predator, and in a way that was more pure.
He ate anguish because he was hungry for it.
He needed human blood and desperation to prolong his own wretched life.
But the other victims in his garden had not been food.
They’d been sacrifices, grist for the society mill that turned out money, power, and influence on demand.
The golem might best Golgarot. They might push back the legions of hell. But apparently all the devils were here.