Sins of the Father Page 8

  “How can you be so sure?” I asked. “His body was never recovered.”

  A burst of static assaulted my ear and then the doctor’s voice, rendered thin and distant by the telephone lines, continued.

  “Yes, that’s so. But as you surely must remember, more than half the building either collapsed or fell into the river. It’s likely your father’s body was never recovered because it ended up crushed or buried at the bottom of the Miskatonic, along with so many other helpless souls. No one could have survived that.”

  Unless they were a demon.

  It was that thought that convinced me of my own foolishness. My father may have been evil, definitely insane, but he’d been perfectly human. Whatever stalked the streets of Innsmouth was no more my father than I was a murderer.

  I thanked Morgan and rang off, my relief tempered by the rest of my problems. I still had no clue as to what the creature was or when it would come for me again. I’d need to stay on guard and pray that Flannery and his goons did their job quickly.

  The idea that my life rested in the hands of the mustachioed inspector and the rest of the Innsmouth police engendered no sense of security in my breast. While most of the coppers I knew were decent men at heart, few of them had enough wits to outsmart a child, let alone find a skulking fiend who might or might not be in league with the Devil himself.

  Stopping the beast might end up being my responsibility after all.

  That frightened me more than being stalked. It was one thing to take matters into my own hands with a common thief. Quite another to seek a confrontation with something not of this earth, something that was looking to end my life.

  And well capable of doing it. Every victim had been of a size much greater than my own and well versed in self-defense.

  Why, I’d be among them now if not for my gun.

  I patted my coat pocket and took a small comfort from the feel of the weapon resting there. From this point on I’d go nowhere without it. Demons they might be, inhabiting the bodies of men, but I’d already proven they could be killed. Those things in the pub had fallen fast enough when I filled their skulls with lead. And fire seemed to do the trick as well.

  Still, I didn’t feel safe until I reached Ben Olmstead’s place on Babson Street. Even then, I kept glancing over my shoulder while waiting for Ben to answer the bell.

  Only two blocks farther away from the waterfront than my own house, Ben’s neighborhood demonstrated how rapidly fortunes can change within a few streets. Streetlamps were more frequent, the road relatively clean of litter, and hardly any empty storefronts or broken windows marred the look of the buildings.

  Ben’s small but neat set of rooms offered a single gentleman all he could want at a fraction of the cost for a flat in the center of town. Parlor, kitchen, and two bedrooms, plus a wash closet he shared with the person who lived across the hall. The building sat in close proximity to several alehouses and dining establishments, which made sense for a bachelor with little time or inclination for cooking. It also boasted a long-widowed landlord happy to turn a blind eye at certain indiscretions in return for a few extra quarters a month.

  Such as an unattached man with a woman neither his wife nor a relative staying with him.

  “How is she feeling?” I asked, after placing my hat and coat on a post in the tiny entryway.

  “Come see for yourself. Dr. Blair prescribed laudanum and rest, but I fear it’s not helping.”

  I followed Ben to the guest room and had to choke back a gasp when I saw Flora.

  She lay in bed, blankets drawn to her chin. Her pallid face blended in with the aged gray pillowcase beneath it. Her hair hung in sweaty ropes and the blush of fever shone on her cheeks and nose.

  “Flora.” I spoke softly, hesitant to wake her but eager to assure myself she wasn’t as ill as she appeared. Her eyes opened. Drugs and sickness had drained them of vibrancy, leaving them a dull blue reminiscent of the fishlike orbs of the dead men in the morgue.

  Cracked, pale lips opened, flesh splitting even farther as taut skin fought to move.

  “Hello, Henry. Where’ve you been?”

  “I’ve been helping Inspector Flannery.” I tossed Ben a quick look. I’d sent a cable before we’d left for Miskatonic, to let them know I hadn’t abandoned them in their time of distress. Hadn’t Ben told her?

  “Sorry, sport,” Ben said from his chair on the other side of the bed. “I didn’t want to worry her further.”

  I frowned at him but refrained from saying anything. It made sense; Flora was in very weak condition. But I also wondered if perhaps my old friend didn’t have ulterior motives. After all, when Flora regained her strength, she’d remember who sat with her through her illness and who hadn’t been around.

  That’s going to change right now.

  “Worry me how?” A hint of Flora’s old fire heated her words and it warmed my heart to see it.

  “The book I found, remember?” When Flora nodded, I continued. “Flannery and I took it to a professor at Miskatonic. He’s going to translate it. It’s a book of spells, magic most foul. Professor Gardiner believes—”

  “Spells? Oh.” Flora clutched at the bedclothes and thrashed her head back and forth. “Demons! The demons.”

  “Quickly! More laudanum.” I placed my weight on her to hold her still and looked at Ben. He handed me a bottle from the small table next to the bed. With deft practice I placed several drops onto Flora’s tongue while Ben held her head. In a few moments, her eyes closed and her movements calmed.

  “Demons,” she whispered. “First Scott, now me. They’ll come back….” Her words drifted off as sleep claimed her.

  “What was that all about?” With Flora sedated, I unwound her bandage to check her wound. The doctor had done a decent job of stitching the flesh closed, but the skin around it was red and swollen.

  “She’s been ranting hysterically about demons ever since I brought her here. Nightmares of those…things in the morgue stalking her. And she dreams about Scott. She’s convinced the dead will rise and come for all of us, that it’s the end of times.”

  I pursed my lips and shook my head. It all seemed so preposterous. Demons, black magic, corpses rising from graves. Yet the proof—

  “—don’t think you should come round for a while.”

  “Wait. What?” Lost in my thoughts, I’d missed part of Ben’s words. I looked up from my examination of Flora’s wounds.

  “I said, I don’t think you should come here. At least until Flora is herself again. Your talk of spells and chasing down demons is only going to upset her further.”

  “So I won’t speak of them.”

  Ben shook his head. “It’s not just the words. It’s you. You brought these things into our lives, through no fault of your own, it’s true,” he hurried to add, “but it happened nonetheless. And you would be a constant reminder of that. She’s simply too fragile right now.”

  I studied Ben’s face. It held a hard cast I’d never seen on the man before, so very different from his usual devil-may-care grin. The look of a man prepared to fight, even though he didn’t want to.

  The worst part was, I couldn’t argue with him. If, in fact, my presence inflamed Flora’s terror the same way her infection inflamed her flesh, then my visiting would do her more harm than good.

  “Someone will still need to change her bandages.” It was obvious Ben hadn’t. The cloth stuck to the oozing wound and stunk of sweat and pus.

  Ben nodded. “Come by in the evenings, after supper. I’ll make sure she’s had her laudanum and is sleeping.”

  “You’ll tell her I was here.” My stomach twisted and it took all my will not to shout accusations at him. No matter the truth of what Ben said, we both knew he had another motivation, one that would leave Flora eternally grateful to the man who tended to her throughout her illness.

  “Of cou
rse, old sport. She’ll never doubt the depth of your friendship, and how your medical know-how helped save the day.”

  This time there was no mistaking Ben’s expression. He believed he’d already won the battle for Flora’s heart. He’d tell her how I helped but she’d never understand the sacrifices I made, how it stabbed my very soul not to be with her every moment.

  Fire rose up in my belly at the thought of someone other than myself taking Flora as their own. Who in blazes did Ben Olmstead think he was, with his fancy new clothes and patronizing attitude?

  Don’t expect me to tip my king to you just yet, old friend. We haven’t reached that point in our game.

  “I suppose it’s for the best.” I nodded and used a whiskey-soaked cloth to wipe away the pus and crusted fluids from Flora’s wound before wrapping it in fresh cloth. When I finished, I saw myself out of the house, murmuring a half-hearted goodbye that Ben returned with equal indifference.

  Outside, the sun had set and the fog had thickened to an almost solid wall. With the heavy mist cooling my anger-flushed skin but doing nothing to douse the flames within me, I gave Ben’s door a final glare before setting off.

  Ben Olmstead thinks he’s beaten me. But he’s underestimated his opponent. Let him spend his days spooning soup into Flora’s mouth and changing her soiled linens. When she’s back on her feet, she’ll only have eyes for a real hero. The man who avenged her brother’s death.

  The man who killed the Fish Street Strangler.

  Chapter Thirteen

  With the morgue closed for the foreseeable future and nothing but an empty house waiting for me, I instead followed State Street to the center of Innsmouth and found a small pub that didn’t seem bent on robbing a man of all his wages for a plate of sausage and a pint of ale. One pint led to another and I managed to douse my anger while grousing to anyone who’d listen about so-called friends who’d as soon stab you in the back as help you. By the time I left, the hour was late and the streets dangerously empty.

  Although I wobbled a bit on my feet at first, the brisk, damp air cleared my head soon enough and by the time I’d reached my neighborhood I’d regained both balance and enough mental alertness to keep an eye out for would-be cutpurses and other vermin of the shadows.

  Which was why I paused before crossing the street to my house. Something about the building seemed…off. Through the intermittent breaks in the mist, I studied the two-story brick structure, trying to determine what had raised my hackles. Finally, I chalked it up to nerves and reached into my pocket for my key.

  And stopped as I noticed the line of shadow at the door’s edge, where there should be none.

  I let go of the key and instead drew my gun with a trembling hand. I had no doubt that I’d closed the door securely before leaving. I remembered clearly sliding the key into the lock and giving the handle a quick pull to make certain the latch caught.

  Someone had broken in.

  I started across the street and then came to a halt in the middle of the road. Whoever it was might still be inside. The prudent thing would be to call the police.

  Bugger that, I thought, remembering the last time I’d been in need of assistance. The bastard would be long gone before the nearest coppers got their lumbering asses here.

  My simmering anger caught fire again and burned away any fear. I raised the gun. Whoever had decided to burgle my house would suffer the consequences, be they man or demon.

  Thinking to surprise the intruder, I strode around to the rear of the house rather than go through the front. I opened the back door and was about to step inside when a massive shape careened into me and bowled me over. I tumbled down the two short steps and rolled to my hands and knees just in time to catch a glimpse of a man-sized figure disappearing into the mist.

  “Stop!” I felt around for the gun, found it a few feet away. I got up and gave chase, cursing my damned terrible luck and the double-damned fog that enveloped Innsmouth on a constant basis. My quarry never slowed, heading north on Fish Street toward the river. The moisture-laden air muffled the slap of our shoes against the paving stones, making it difficult to keep track of the burglar.

  We continued that way for two blocks, my ghostlike quarry moving in unnatural silence. Glimpses of darker shadows and swirling currents in the mist were the only signs of his presence until he reached State Street and paused at the corner. In that moment of hesitation, I caught my first real look at him, the glow of a gas lamp revealing the barest glimpse of his features, hardly more than a silhouette. Yet still enough to inject ice into my veins and freeze me mid-step.

  The suggestion of a pale face, a ghostly jellyfish in a sea of gray. Broad shoulders sloping down to arms that gave the impression of abnormal length, much longer than they should be. A coat or cloak of some kind that reached to his knees, fading away into the mist. When the figure turned right and hurried off again, there was a weird cast to his movements, almost as if the man had an extra limb.

  Or a tail.

  Dread gripped me with an icy hand. I clenched the gun tighter.

  Him!

  The demon had returned. Most likely to seek out the book again. The memory of that awful visage looming over me did its best to keep me rooted in place but I forced it away. This was what I’d wanted. My chance to take down the Fish Street Strangler and redeem myself with Flora by ridding us of the specter who’d brought so much darkness into our lives.

  It won’t get away again!

  Once more I gave pursuit, knowing I had to stay close or lose my quarry in the mists. At the end of the block I attempted to train my pistol at the fleeing target but I couldn’t aim straight enough to take a shot. Instead, I settled for keeping the gun in hand and putting all my efforts into my legs. Fueled by rage and ale, I ran faster than I ever had before, mist and buildings blending into a gray blur as I kept my eyes focused on the fuzzy outline of the demon.

  I was several steps onto the Water Street Bridge before I realized the creature was leading me into Old Innsmouth. My pace slowed as I again considered abandoning the chase. Only fools or criminals crossed the Manuxet River. Especially at night.

  This may be your only chance.

  I had the demon on the run. I was armed. When would I have an opportunity like that again?

  Imagine Flora’s face when she hears I not only killed the monster, but ventured into hell itself to do it. She’ll forget Ben Olmstead even exists.

  I crossed the river and kept going.

  With each passing block, with each glimpse of an abnormal, slinking stride, my resolve weakened. I wondered if I’d made a monumental error. Sane folk avoided Old Innsmouth like the very plague that had rendered it inhospitable decades earlier.

  Except my damned pride wouldn’t allow me to quit. If I turned back I’d forever be the man who lost his nerve, who’d gone yellow when things got dangerous. Instead of being a hero to Flora, I’d be less than nothing, a failure as a man and a friend.

  And wouldn’t Ben love that? I could hear my supposed chum now. “Poor old Henry. Turned out to be quite the Sally, didn’t he?” All the while wearing that simpering grin of his. No, dammit, this was something I had to see through to the finish. No turning back. No going for the police.

  Not that I wouldn’t appreciate assistance at the moment. Extra eyes and fists would definitely be of benefit if it came down to a physical encounter. There’d be no aid forthcoming, though, so no sense dwelling on the impossible. No police patrol had crossed the bridge in years, not since the people of Innsmouth had, through action if not official decree, abandoned the northern side of the town and allowed it to become a wasteland populated by vermin of both the four- and two-legged variety.

  Hike up your britches and get on with it.

  Something my father used to say when I didn’t want to do my chores. I’d cease lollygagging, having learned the hard way those words meant there’d be no mo
re warnings. Now that memory spurred me on in a different fashion. If I brought in the demon, it would mean more than just a place in Flora’s heart. There’d likely as not be a change in the attitude of the whole town toward me. Wipe away the stain my father’s actions had left on the family name.

  I’d finally be my own man, a respected citizen, rather than the son of the worst criminal in Innsmouth’s history.

  There. Something moving amid the gray eddies and darker shadows, up at the next corner. I put on a burst of speed, desperate to close the distance between us. My hand tightened around the handle of the pistol, fighting against the damp air and sweat that threatened to steal the weapon from my grasp.

  I rounded the corner and my foot slipped on the slick paving stones, a reminder that Old Innsmouth held dangers besides those of the criminal variety. Thanks to decades of neglect, the buildings and streets had surpassed disrepair and reached a state of crumbling decay that made it hazardous just to walk among them. Only one in four streetlamps still fought a losing battle against the fog. Feral dogs and other wildlife prowled the barren neighborhoods, some with a taste for flesh and all potential carriers of deadly disease.

  I regained my balance and regarded the broad width of a once-grand avenue, its tall square buildings monuments to a different time. Behind the curtains of mist, the bricks would be deteriorating and the windows all broken. The stench of decay filled the moisture-laden air, a stomach-churning stew of rot, black fungus, and something worse, an indefinable stink that raised the hairs on my neck.

  Which way? The fog had thickened, as if emanating from the buildings themselves, reducing visibility down to mere yards. A muffled sound to my left made me turn, just in time to catch a glimpse of darker black at the entrance to a side street. An impression of something long swinging to one side past two legs.

  A coat. Only a coat, you fool. You’re not a child, hiding beneath the bedcovers from the boogem-man.

  Still, the image of a tail remained in my head and my heart beat faster than my exertions accounted for. I resumed my pursuit, a tad slower now, wary of my quarry lying in wait within the stygian depths.