just forget his clothes?"
Grudgingly, I admitted he was right. I didn't say anything, though.
"Which means that he left them behind. By mistake or by plan. And there's nothing in them to make me think it was planned. To me it looks like he brought them here from some great distance, unpacked them while he was here, and then repacked them with the intention of taking them somewhere else. And then he didn't."
"So," I said, slumping my shoulders. "We search the rest of the place."
Wilson nodded. I gave the bundled lump of the mask one more nervous look.
"Locked rooms first, please?" I said.
"That's fine with me. And look," he said, then opened one of the chests. There was a revolver laying on top of the carefully folded shirts. "A present."
I tossed my water-logged iron on the bed and holstered the new revolver. Didn't bother checking the load, or the balance. Just hoped I wouldn't have to draw it. Mostly wasn't sure that I had the heart to draw iron right now. The Celestean nightmare was still howling at the edges of my mind. I didn't trust myself with a weapon. Distastefully, Wilson picked up my old pistol from the bed and stowed it in his coat.
"Always leaving things around, Jacob. You should know better."
"Whatever," I said, heading for the door. "Let's get this over with."
Whatever had been locked in those rooms was long gone. The rooms were devoid of furniture, although the windows were boarded up from the inside. The paint on the floors showed heavy wear, like someone spent all their time pacing back and forth, window to door to window to corner to door. That was the only difference in each of the rooms, actually. The pattern of wear on the floor was of varying complexity. And all of the rooms smelled, though not unpleasantly. Like fresh soil, and the harvest. It reminded me of summers in my youth, out on the estate. Back when we had an estate, and I had summers. Wilson stood in the door to each room, sniffing carefully at the air and studying the floor. He never went in. After the third room I got tired of standing in the hallway and pushed past him into the room. He frowned, but let me go.
"So, he was keeping someone in here?"
"Maybe. It doesn't seem like security was terribly good."
"A padlock doesn't strike you as good security?"
He shrugged his complexity of shoulders. "Those windows could be opened pretty easily. The nails are tiny and the boards aren't flush." Grimly he walked into the room and went to the window. With two fingers he tore a board free and peered out into the light. "Easy enough to undo."
"Remember the toys. Maybe these were kids he had in here. They wouldn't have been strong enough to do that."
"Cheery thought," Wilson said with a sigh. "The foot traffic isn't consistent with that. Big feet made these tracks. Heavy feet."
"Maybe. So if the window isn't any good, why the lock on the door?"
"Maybe it wasn't to keep people in here. Maybe it was to keep people out of here."
"You think Crane had a lot of curious visitors?" I asked.
"Don't you find him curious, Jacob?" Wilson set down the board and quickly exited the room. "I think you're right. I think it's time for us to be on our way. This place makes me oddly uncomfortable. Let's finish up."
The last of the locked rooms provided no additional insight. Without much hope, we turned the knob on the second of the unlocked rooms and threw open the door. It was the smell that got me first, before the door was even fully open. That butcher's smell: spilled meat and blood.
There was only one body, in the center of the room, arms and legs spread and chest bloody. Wilson bounded into the room, steel out, spider arms flickering across the floor and walls. I had the new revolver in my hand. The balance was good, I noticed without noticing, the nightmare forgotten.
"No one else," Wilson said. "Come on."
Of course Wilson didn't recognize him. He'd only seen Gray the one time, on the docks. And the way Gray Anderson looked right now, his own
Grudgingly, I admitted he was right. I didn't say anything, though.
"Which means that he left them behind. By mistake or by plan. And there's nothing in them to make me think it was planned. To me it looks like he brought them here from some great distance, unpacked them while he was here, and then repacked them with the intention of taking them somewhere else. And then he didn't."
"So," I said, slumping my shoulders. "We search the rest of the place."
Wilson nodded. I gave the bundled lump of the mask one more nervous look.
"Locked rooms first, please?" I said.
"That's fine with me. And look," he said, then opened one of the chests. There was a revolver laying on top of the carefully folded shirts. "A present."
I tossed my water-logged iron on the bed and holstered the new revolver. Didn't bother checking the load, or the balance. Just hoped I wouldn't have to draw it. Mostly wasn't sure that I had the heart to draw iron right now. The Celestean nightmare was still howling at the edges of my mind. I didn't trust myself with a weapon. Distastefully, Wilson picked up my old pistol from the bed and stowed it in his coat.
"Always leaving things around, Jacob. You should know better."
"Whatever," I said, heading for the door. "Let's get this over with."
Whatever had been locked in those rooms was long gone. The rooms were devoid of furniture, although the windows were boarded up from the inside. The paint on the floors showed heavy wear, like someone spent all their time pacing back and forth, window to door to window to corner to door. That was the only difference in each of the rooms, actually. The pattern of wear on the floor was of varying complexity. And all of the rooms smelled, though not unpleasantly. Like fresh soil, and the harvest. It reminded me of summers in my youth, out on the estate. Back when we had an estate, and I had summers. Wilson stood in the door to each room, sniffing carefully at the air and studying the floor. He never went in. After the third room I got tired of standing in the hallway and pushed past him into the room. He frowned, but let me go.
"So, he was keeping someone in here?"
"Maybe. It doesn't seem like security was terribly good."
"A padlock doesn't strike you as good security?"
He shrugged his complexity of shoulders. "Those windows could be opened pretty easily. The nails are tiny and the boards aren't flush." Grimly he walked into the room and went to the window. With two fingers he tore a board free and peered out into the light. "Easy enough to undo."
"Remember the toys. Maybe these were kids he had in here. They wouldn't have been strong enough to do that."
"Cheery thought," Wilson said with a sigh. "The foot traffic isn't consistent with that. Big feet made these tracks. Heavy feet."
"Maybe. So if the window isn't any good, why the lock on the door?"
"Maybe it wasn't to keep people in here. Maybe it was to keep people out of here."
"You think Crane had a lot of curious visitors?" I asked.
"Don't you find him curious, Jacob?" Wilson set down the board and quickly exited the room. "I think you're right. I think it's time for us to be on our way. This place makes me oddly uncomfortable. Let's finish up."
The last of the locked rooms provided no additional insight. Without much hope, we turned the knob on the second of the unlocked rooms and threw open the door. It was the smell that got me first, before the door was even fully open. That butcher's smell: spilled meat and blood.
There was only one body, in the center of the room, arms and legs spread and chest bloody. Wilson bounded into the room, steel out, spider arms flickering across the floor and walls. I had the new revolver in my hand. The balance was good, I noticed without noticing, the nightmare forgotten.
"No one else," Wilson said. "Come on."
Of course Wilson didn't recognize him. He'd only seen Gray the one time, on the docks. And the way Gray Anderson looked right now, his own
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