Astronomy(43)

“Somebody’s fucking dead,” he whispered. She put her arms around him. He was shaking. “Somebody’s fucking dead.”

* * *

Five minutes searching the upstairs rooms, they discovered the real target of the attack on Berendstrasse house—the Black Library was gone.

Susan marveled at the thoroughness of the thieves. The metal racks of lower-level research, the shelves of purely historical and geographic material, the safe holding the really dangerous books like the Necronomicon, the card file that tracked their usage—even the desk and chairs were gone. Someone had cleaned the place to the walls.

The Black Library, that was a gut shot. Without the Necronomicon, they were flying blind. They could dig up everything they needed on Das Unternehmen, but it meant little if they had no research material to put any of it into context.

The only people they could even talk to were Malmagden and Carl Leder. But Malmagden had absented himself from further inquires. And Leder? Aside from Krzysztof Malmagden, Leder was the only source of information on Azathoth and his attendant entities.

Susan found a phone in the kitchen, near the cellar door. The phone number for Agnes Dei’s mental ward was scratched an inch into the wall by something as thick and sharp as a rat-tail file.

She ran her finger along the serrated edge of the impression. Something poked from the wall—a coarse, grayish-brown hair. As she plucked it out, the phone connected. She asked for Carl Leder.

A voice at the other end said, “Fräulein Berne? Herr Leder is most anxious to meet with you.”

“Excuse me?” Fräulein Berne. Nobody had called her that since Berlin. “Who is this? What have you done to Leder?”

“This very afternoon, the object of his life’s work entertained him in his cell for fifty-three interesting and informative minutes. He wishes to share this experience with you.”

She tried out a name from her past. “Is that you, Nietzsche?”

A brief pause. “You need to come down immediately, Fräulein Berne.”

She had to aim the handset to hang up the receiver. Her face must have been white; Charley asked her what was wrong.

“Leder is dead,” she managed. “I just talked to one of Malmagden’s creatures.” Something was drumming in her ears. She thought it was blood at first, but no, it was a memory. It was the crash of Russian rockets.

A louder crash—something shattered in the basement. They looked at each other. Neither of them had considered the possibility that anyone might still be here.

They listened a moment. Yes, whispering. They heard somebody giggle, somebody hush him up.

She followed Charley across the kitchen. He pulled out his .45 and kicked open the cellar door. The metallic smell of fresh blood filled her nostrils. Susan spotted strips of something shiny and pink hanging loose over a rafter. Flesh? No. She couldn’t believe that. But whatever it was, there was no denying it had been pulled from some bloody mass lying on the floor. Susan had this crazy impression of a rump roast disassembled with a hacksaw. She knew that couldn’t be right. She raised her eyes toward a pool of light in the corner of the basement.

There, left as sort of a reminder, were Dale Bogen’s pants. Susan put her finger to her lips. Not a sound, she swore to herself. Later, maybe. Not now.

Charley went for the pants. Susan knew he wasn’t being careful, but she wasn’t going to let him go alone. She swung her Walther around as they descended. The room was dark. She couldn’t tell if she heard anything or not.

Sinister laughter erupted so close to her ear she jumped. The darkness at her side materialized into a toothy grin, cadmium-colored eyes.

She swung out her pistol, but something caught her arm in the dark. The Walther was peeled out of her fingers.

“You have come down to enjoy your friend along with us.” The voice slipped around the fricatives in a way that suggested some problem with the palate.

Shrieve had swung around, but a muscular shadow lunged out from behind and clamped his arms at his sides. He strained to pull his gun arm up, to shoot Susan’s attacker, but its free arc was shallow by just a few, maddening degrees. Another creature stepped forward out of the shadows, watching Charley with evident amusement.

“You made an example of the wrong person,” Charley said, looking from one to the other. “This kid was in Europe maybe two months. He knew nothing of you.”

More laughter—these were Malmagden’s personal guard from Berlin. They had found her at last. Three of them were here. The fourth would be coming back from the mental hospital, where he had killed Leder.

“Your friend is not here as an example,” said the one in the middle. “You shall be the examples. You shall be the warning to all who would involve themselves in our business.”