Miami, Florida
As was to be expected, the temperature inside the morgue was kept chilly. The room smelled of formaldehyde and detergents. The two knights followed the attendant down the wall of small metal doors. It was obvious right away which door they were looking for. It was the only one with a padlock on its latch. The attendant looked both ways to confirm that they were alone, then pulled out a ring of keys. A moment later, he slid out a table containing a sheet-draped corpse. Even with the sheet in place hiding the evidence, it was obvious that the body was in two pieces, with the lump of the head being just a bit too far from the remainder.
Well done, Francis, John Moses Browning thought.
The morgue attendant looked at them expectantly. “Well, gentlemen?”
Donald Bryce removed his wallet from inside his suit jacket, pulled out five twenty-dollar silver certificates and handed them over. The attendant tried to pull them away, but Bryce wouldn’t let go of the money. He scowled at the attendant and waited.
“Half now. Half when we’re finished,” Browning said.
The attendant looked hurt. “Okay… You got fifteen minutes. That’s all I can promise. I don’t want to get fired for letting reporters in here. We’re under real strict orders.”
“That’ll be sufficient,” Browning said as he nodded at his companion.
Bryce relaxed his grip and the attendant snatched the money away. “Fifteen minutes. Take your pictures quick. Don’t fiddle with it,” he said, indicating the dead man. “The doctors can always tell.”
The bag in Browning’s hand did in fact have a camera in it, but that was only in case any of the police officers or staff had bothered to check as they’d bribed their way in. No one had. Apparently they were not the first “newsmen” that had snuck illicit photographs of the assassin’s body. None of the pictures had shown up in a legitimate newspaper yet, since a decapitation would never make it past the censors, but it made for a very plausible story.
The attendant hurried out of the room and locked the door behind him. Bryce pulled the sheet down to the corpse’s waist. The darkly intense knight was entirely too comfortable around the dead for Browning’s taste, but that was to be expected. One did not chose their particular Power, their Power chose them. So a man wielding a Power based in death would obviously be as at home with the dead as Browning was with metal and machines.
“Can you tell if anyone else has tried this on him?” Browning asked.
“No. It’s clean… Not surprising. Even when I was with the NYPD nobody wanted to know about what I did. They were just happy to close all those murder cases.” Bryce chuckled. “I’m a rare breed. Maybe a handful of us in the whole world.”
There was an overhead lamp on a long arm. Browning brought it over and turned it on. The body had taken on a pallid, nearly blue shade. Incisions had been made to open the chest, and those lines cut directly through the intricate spell that had been carved there before. The neck ended in a jagged tear. The exposed flesh was the purple of old meat. The head was resting on its side, features limp. Giuseppe Zangara had been a plain man.
“Best hurry.” Bryce casually took a handful of hair and hoisted the head from the table, so that the sunken face was pointing his way. It made Browning’s skin crawl. Bryce’s voice was raspy and cold. “No lungs to work with. Vocal cords, what’s left of them, are mangled. But if I channel enough Power through him I can make him understandable.”
Browning had never worked with a Lazarus before. “How?”
“Broadcasting. Sort of like how a Beastie can talk through an animal. The words are still there, even if the parts to make them aren’t… But the way the spine’s been crushed and how much decay’s set in, he’ll be in extraordinary pain.”
That afternoon had been spent surveying the scene where hundreds of innocent people had died. The fire department had been hosing down the streets to clean the dried blood. There was no compassion for one such as this. “Carry on, Mr. Bryce.”
The other knight closed his eyes, concentrated, and exercised his Power. The air grew colder. It was as if the lights dimmed, but perhaps that was just a trick of the imagination. Browning did not know, but the Power of a Lazarus made him deeply uncomfortable. Browning looked toward the entrance. They were in the basement and door seemed solid. Good. There could be screaming.
While Bryce worked his magic, Browning studied the intricate spell that had been bound to the assassin’s chest. It was far beyond anything he’d seen before, greater than anything the Society had ever discovered, more complex than any Soviet design, even better than the flowing Imperium kanji… This was a work of art. Even Browning, who had spent a lifetime studying such things, could only comprehend bits and pieces of it. Someone capable of creating a spell of such Power was very dangerous, indeed. They were tracking a worthy adversary.
The spell also matched the sketch that they’d received from their source in Washington. That was good news. He’d been unsure if he could utilize that particular source, but this confirmed the infomant’s trustworthiness. That source should prove valuable.
“Got him…” Bryce said simply, as if he’d just hooked a fish and was reeling it in, instead of the absolute horror of dragging a captive intelligence back from the spirit world. Intellectually, he knew it was unfair to judge a man’s character by what type of Active he was, but Mr. Bryce seemed to enjoy this entirely too much.
This time Browning was certain that the lights did in fact flicker. Dead eyes opened, revealing milky orbs, and Zangara looked about in terror. The jaw unhinged as the zombie let out a terrible wail. It was a revolting sound.
Bryce held the head so that Zangara could see his own body. “See that? Look familiar? Yeah, you’re dead. Get used to it.” Bryce spun the head around. “Welcome back to the world of the living, you rotten son of a bitch. The faster you answer our questions, the faster I’ll let you die again. Until I’m satisfied, I own you.” He turned the head back to face Browning.
The eyes were blinking and twitching. The dead man seemed very frightened. A creaking hiss was their answer.
Browning folded his arms and glared at the severed head. “You have some explaining to do, Mr. Zangara. We shall start from the beginning.”
“It hurts.”
Bryce swung the head back to face him. “You heard me the first time. Quit messing around. Sooner you talk, sooner the pain stops. Do not waste my time. Got it?”
“Yessss.”
“All yours.” Bryce swung Zangara’s head back around.
“Who put that spell on your chest?”
“The angel.”
Browning was certain it was no angel that had bolstered the Power of this madman. “Did the angel have a name?”
“No names. Only angel. So beautiful.”
“Did the angel tell you to kill Roosevelt?”
“Yes. Wanted to kill him before. The angel heard my dreams and made me strong enough to do it.”
“What did the angel look like?”
“So beautiful. Eyes made of light.”
“Eyes?” Browning played a hunch. “Tell me about the eyes?”
“Red light. Soooo pretty. Like Christmas lights. First there were two. Then it had four.”
The two knights exchanged a glance. The angel had been a Summoned.
“The angel carved the spell on your chest by itself or did someone help it?”
“No! Only the angel!”
Bryce took the head and smashed it against the metal table. Zangara screamed. “Don’t lie to me, zombie. Summoned aren’t smart enough draw spells.”
“It was the angel. It talked to me. It knew me. It made me strong. There were no helpers, only the angel.”
Bryce lifted the head again, but before he could smack it against the table, Browning held up one hand. “You
