Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A lantern’s light may be applied to a variety of tasks by changing the stroke of one’s bow across the lantern’s frame: to assault, to blind, to brace, to canker, to cleanse, to reveal . . .
—Edward Elgar, The Art of Bowing
Less than a minute after Brach was gone, Dr. Cage bustled back into the autopsy room. “Sorry for the delay, gentlemen, but if I may beg a few minutes more of your time, please.” He finger-combed his mustache again. “You see, in my line of work, I see a lot of death.”
I stood there, listening, but wondering whether Brach had engineered those few minutes alone for us in the coroner’s examination bay.
“What I mean,” Cage continued, “and what I think Detective Bryant was getting at, is that police questioning and the viewing of the deceased inside our examination rooms aren’t exactly protocol. But in some cases, we look past the rules . . . because some of us know about your kind.”
I shot a look at Cassius, then back at Dr. Cage. “What do you mean ‘Some of you know about our kind’?”
Cage tugged at his mustache. “Gentlemen, please, no need to be coy.
And certainly no need for concern. I’ve no mind to expose you. Not that most people would have an ear for it.”
I looked around the room—Henry’s dead body, Ghost Face’s dead body.
And that was just today. It made sense that a coroner might see a lot of thanaturgic death in his work.
The Westminster priest, Kincaid, had said repeated exposure to it could nullify the Enigma Covenant, making it possible for humans like Cage and Bryant to become unveiled.
It also made sense now why Brach had made sure they were out of the room when he paid his visit.
“Expose us for what?” I still asked.
Cage sighed. “Your friend here is dressed as a Roman centurion, and he has bindings on his wrists like those I’ve seen on so many of the bodies that cross my tables.”
Cassius and I shared a look—no point in denying it. “Detective Bryant see it, too?” I asked.
“Detective Bryant isn’t as aware as I am, but he sees enough cases like this to make him suspicious. I don’t approve of what he did here today, though, particularly since you, Mr. Solomon, are in fact listed as Mr. Wilkinson’s next of kin.”
I looked back at Henry’s sheet-draped corpse. Brach had suspected as much. “The detective was just trying to get a rise out of me, then.”
“Indeed,” said Cage. “But whilst I was obliged to allow him his little show, I was not inclined to be part of it.” He motioned to a door behind us. “Would you follow me, please, gentlemen.”
Cage led us into a small office with a desk and a window that looked out onto the street. A map of London was pinned to a corkboard wall. Several pushpins marked points on the map.
I stepped closer. “What are we looking at?”
Moving toward his desk, Cage explained, “These are the recovery points of bodies for which I have formal death certificates that predate their arrival on my tables. In some cases, bodies on which I’ve conducted autopsies or even attended funerals.”
Cage was interrupted by the patter of hurried footsteps and the rattle of metal wheels in the autopsy room.
I jumped up and bolted to the door, but whoever had entered was already gone.
So was the body of Henry’s killer. I dashed into the hallway and saw three men, far down the hall, pushing a gurney around a corner.
I took off after them, Cassius at my back.
We rounded the corner, just as one of the men slung the corpse over his shoulder and all three rushed through a large metal door.
I sprinted to the door and slammed a hand down on the handle latch. It didn’t budge. Then I noticed the electronic key card box next to it on the wall.
Cage came careening around the corner, panting, and stumbled to a stop.
“Happens all too often. When I ring the authorities about bodies that arrive wearing threads”—he pointed at Cassius’s binding bracelets—“those bodies tend to disappear. Someone is bugging communications from this office and using the information to snatch up the dead.”
I grabbed his arm. “What’s behind this door?”
“I’m not sure,” said Cage. “This building is leased by the city from a large holding company. They maintain two entirely separate key card systems.” Cage got out his card. “One for the coroner’s office and another for the doors down this corridor.”
“You have never been in any of these rooms?” Cassius asked.
Cage shook his head. “I asked about them once. The property manager told me they’re being remodeled, but I’ve never seen any workmen go in or out.”
Jack thought a moment. “Show me to the building’s utilities room.”
Cage nodded and we rushed down the hall to a small alcove. He used his key card to get us into a central facilities closet. It resembled a room at the Palladium in LA where I’d run sound a few times for touring bands—electrical panels, data panels, HVAC access, the usual.
“Let’s hope they weren’t smart enough to patch in a dedicated electrical line.” I turned to Cassius. “Once I cut power to the key card system, all electronic locks will default to unlocked. Whoever’s behind those doors might know we’re coming.”
Cassius drew his sword. “Let us be quick, then.”
“Dr. Cage, go back to your office and wait for us there.” Cage hurried off toward his lab.
I cut the power, drew my knife, then Cassius and I raced back toward the door. Emergency lights shone dimly every ten feet down the long hall.
“Let me go first,” said Cassius.
I nodded and we opened the door to find a broad set of stairs leading down into Strata darkness.
Damn. I’d need to take the lead, and I hadn’t acclimated well the last time.
More than that, this time, I figured we’d have to fight to get what we were going down for.
It wasn’t the fight itself that worried me, though; it was my lack of catalysts to be of any real use in that fight.
“C’mon,” I said, and we started down the concrete steps into the dark.