The blood scent was surprisingly faint.
But the strong smell of bleach coming from the warehouse meant nothing good.
Jack stood in the open doorway. The tie he’d been forced to wear since his promotion to inspector had been violently loosened, and he was breathing shallowly through his nose. The rapid slam of his heart against his ribs suggested he’d armoredhimself in professionalism in order to maintain a semblance of outward calm.
“I have seen some shit, Fitzroy,” he said when Henry drew close enough. “On my own. With you.” He shook his head and entered the warehouse. “Normally, I’d call Tony for something like this but…”
“But he’s in San Diego.”
“Yeah. That too.”
Following Jack between the stacks of crates toward the blaze of what looked like a half dozen circled spotlights hanging from catwalks, Henry breathed shallowly through his mouth so as not to be overwhelmed by the bleach fumes. A pile of crates blocking the end of the passage forced them to turn left down another passage toward an opening marked by a spill of light. A quick glance up at the ceiling suggested the opening would lead to the center of the warehouse. When Henry moved toward it, Jack stopped him.
He ran a hand through his short pale blond hair. “Not yet. You go in there now withyoureyes, you’ll go blind. Give them a minute to…”
Before he could finish, all but one of the spotlights up on the catwalks went out.
“Right.” He swallowed. “Let’s go then.”
The remaining spotlight shone into the center of a roughly circular open area three, maybe four meters across. In front of a body propped upright on a low pedestal, a short, heavyset man in a turban placed equipment back into his case with the kind of care that suggested he was barely maintaining control.
Jack cleared his throat. “Doc?”
“I’m done.” He closed the case and turned.
“Anything?”
“Alive while it happened. Probably for a while after. Deadwhen he was mounted on that post at least, poor bastard.” He walked past them, gaze locked on the middle distance, as though acknowledging another person on anything but the most superficial level would shatter his composure. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Inspector, I’m going to waitoutsidefor the wagon.”
As the doctor’s footsteps faded, Henry stepped forward. Once. Twice. Close enough that blood and flesh and terror and pain overwhelmed the bleach. “Saint Bartholomew was one of the twelve apostles,” he said. “He was flayed for converting an Armenian king to Christianity. In 1562, Marco d’Agrate sculpted the saint holding a book and wearing his skin like a stole.” Confined by the limitations of stone, the sculpted stole was less dramatic than the stole in front of him. D’Agrate had omitted dangling feet and hands, the bristle of chest hair, the face still wearing duct tape over its mouth. Stone genitalia had been covered. Flesh was not. The weight of the skin held open the book.
Saint Bartholomew held a Bible. This non-saint held one of Henry’s books.
For the last five years, Henry had been writing graphic novels under the name Henry Richmond.
He took a step closer. Blood obscured all but the panel that held the drawing of D’Agrate’sSaint Bartholomew Flayedin the Duomo di Milano.
“Figured this is a message for you.” Jack’s voice sounded muffled, distanced by the fingernail grip Henry had on his control. “Both the book and the…extremes the creature went to. So the question is, what’s come into my city?”
Henry drew a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, tasting the residue left beneath the bleach. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? Are you saying something that could do this hasbeen here all along and you didn’t…” The pause stretched. Lengthened. “Fuck me,” Jack muttered at last. “A person did this? A basic, non-mythic human?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe possessed by, like, a demon or a vengeful ghost or something?”
“No. Just a person. But you’re right,” he continued, before Jack could respond, “this is a message for me. Both the book and the victim. This body…” Once belonged to. Once held. Once was. “It’s Kevin Groves.”
“The truth guy who writes for the tabloids?”
“The truth guy who writes for the tabloids,” Henry agreed. “Kevin Groves. Who knew when he was being lied to. Probably why he got divorced last year. He always said it was a curse. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s been trying to become an investigative reporter and failing. Kept trying though. But more importantly…” He could feel his control slipping and turned to face Jack in the hope of containing the Darkness just a little longer. “More importantly…He. Was. Mine.”
Jack had one hand on his weapon and the other outstretched, as though flesh and bone and willpower could stop what Henry barely held in check. “What now?”
“Now? Now I’m going to find out who sent the message and answer it.”
“It’ll be a trap.”
