bartender refilled the beer glass and stepped away down the bar, discreetly out of hearing.
“Hello Windham,” Donovan said. He took a long, slow sip of the bourbon and water and watched the other man in silence.
Up close, the man’s profile took on stark angles. He was razor thin. His long hair wasn’t exactly greasy, but it also wasn’t clean. He wore a dark trench coat, despite the fact that in San Valencez there were only a few days of the year cool enough to warrant it. There were gloves on the bar beside him, and Donovan noted that the man’s hands were uncommonly long and slender. His skin, where it was visible, was very pale and tinged a light yellow. A quick assessment by one who didn’t know him would have placed Windham in Johndrow’s group, but it would be a mistake.
Jasper Windham was a collector. He made his living finding things; ingredients for potions, amulets, missing persons, things that others didn’t want found. Windham wasn’t the only collector in the city, but he was one of the best. Donovan was pleased to have found him so quickly and easily.
“You come here just to buy me beer?” Windham asked, turning to face Donovan at last, “or you need something?”
Windham’s voice was very dry, hardly more than a whisper, as if the vocal chords that formed its sound were made of aged parchment. He wrapped his fingers around the fresh beer, and Donovan saw that they circled the glass completely and folded in under his palm. The nails were yellow and chipped.
Donovan met Windham’s gaze and smiled thinly. “You know me too well, old friend,” he said tipping his drink gently in Windham’s direction. “I don’t have much time for casual drinking these days.”
Windham continued to stare pointedly, not speaking. He sipped his beer, and then placed it back on the bar.
“There are strange things happening,” Donovan continued. “They are things that concern me and quite a few others as well. I’m looking for some information.”
“I don’t deal in information,” Windham replied, dropping his gaze. “I find things, you know that.”
Donovan nodded, despite the fact his suddenly reluctant companion was no longer looking at him.
“Yes, I know.” he said. “I also know that if someone wants something, you are one of their first choices for finding it. That’s why I’m here. There are a lot of things ending up — missing. Did you hear what happened at Johndrow’s party?”
Windham’s head swiveled snake-quick.
“I had nothing to do with that. I wouldn’t even have tried with Kline there, and I don’t do kidnapping.”
“I didn’t suggest that you did,” Donovan replied, taking another sip of his bourbon. “I’m not sure who was behind it, but the same person visited me, and now it’s personal.”
Windham watched Donovan carefully, but no longer seemed inclined to interrupt.
“Something of mine was taken,” Donovan continued, “and if my suspicions are correct, there will be more things taken before our thief has finished. I think I know what he’s after…what I’m trying to find out is if he’s tried to get you to find it for him.”
Windham held his silence. He had grown very still, and Donovan knew he was poised to defend himself, or run.
“I know you don’t share information on your clients,” Donovan said. “I’d be pretty unhappy with you myself if you did, but I’m thinking the one I’m looking for might not be a client yet. Maybe he talked to you… or someone you know. Maybe you didn’t like what you saw, or heard. Maybe you’re still thinking about it. Maybe I have enough money backing me to make you think twice.”
“I’m listening,” Windham said. His whispery voice was almost lost in the soft jazz. It dropped into the conversation like a ghost lyric behind the saxophone.
“I think he’s looking for bone marrow dust,” Donovan said, getting straight to the point. “But not just any dust. This would be from a very particular bone, and a very difficult donor. I’m not going to give you any more details until I know where we stand, but I bet I’ve said enough.”
Something flickered across Windham’s expression, just for a moment, and then he sat still and silent as stone again. Donovan sipped his whiskey, and waited.
“I might have heard something,” Windham said at last, turning back to his beer. He spoke quickly and kept his head down, muffling his words further with the proximity of the polished wood bar, and punctuating his words with quick sips of cold beer. “No one contacted me directly, you understand, but there is a general call out on the street, if you know where to find such requests- very handsome wages, I might add — for such an item. It’s difficult, and the last I’d heard no one has attempted to fill the order. Whoever does won’t have to work for some time to come, but the risks…”
“Assuming we’re talking about the same item,” Donovan said, “how many sources would there be — locally?”
Windham glanced at him, trying to read his intentions, then replied with a shrug.
“One.” He said, dropping some of the secrecy. “There is only one such grave within a hundred miles. It’s in the older section of the ShadyGroveCemetery, between here and Lavender. I’m sure you’re familiar with the location.”
Donovan nodded. There had been all sorts of strange occurrences at the particular graveyard Windham had named.
“That place is pretty well guarded,” he said. “I can see how the job could be complicated.”
“Are you looking, too?” Windham asked.
“I’m looking, but not for someone to do the work,” Donovan replied. “I want to see to it that the one who is seeking it doesn’t come into possession of this particular item.”
“He won’t get it from me,” Windham said with a shrug. “I doubt he’ll find a collector in the city who’d go for it. There’s too much chance of getting caught, and the records for that section of the graveyard are sketchy. It might take hours just to find the right grave, and what if someone took him long ago? There’s no way to tell without digging him up, unless you’re a necromancer, and no one wants to attract attention.”
“That’s understandable,” Donovan replied. “You’re certain these bones… meet the criteria?”
“Absolutely,” Windham said without hesitation. “On that much the records are solid. The grave belongs to Father Antoine Vargas. He was one of the first priests to serve at the Cathedral of San Marcos, by the Sea. I’m sure you know the place?”
“I’ve seen it,” Donovan said.
“Father Antoine was, apparently, very sensitive to demons. He was retired at an early age by the church for performing exorcisms. This would make him unsuitable, except that the first few of these ceremonies were sanctioned by The Church. The records I found show that he was unaccountably successful in these rituals, though the church never acknowledged it. He made quite a stir in other parts of the city at the time.”
Donovan nodded thoughtfully. “Why is it so difficult to find his grave, then?”
“He was not in favor with the church for the last decade of his life. Apparently, despite the success rate his exorcisms claimed, The Church didn’t like the idea that there could be such a concentrated, acknowledged burst of evil in one place. He was replaced with another and given a small cottage by the beach and enough money to live off of, which it seems he used little of before one of his rituals finally claimed him. The grave was paid for by parishioners — not by the church — and it is marked only with a flat stone. The inscription, according to my sources, reads simply ‘Gone to God.’
“Of course, locating the grave is the least of the problems,” Windham sighed. It was obvious he would have loved to accept this particular assignment, and Donovan had to fight back the frown that threatened to crease his brow.
“You said the price for this job was high,” he said, controlling his voice. “How open is the call?”
Windham glanced up at him sharply.
“You aren’t thinking about horning in on the business?” he asked. His voice had grown suddenly shrewd, and sharp.
Donovan laughed and took another sip of his whiskey. He turned fully in his seat to face the thin, cadaverous man beside him.
“Not a chance,” he said flatly. “I like what I do just fine. I have only two reasons for being here. The first is to see that this thief doesn’t acquire what he needs to complete a particular ritual, and the second, if possible, is to find out who he is. If I had what he needed, he’d have to come to me again, wouldn’t he?”
