difficulty. Though the Japanese language was second nature to Hearthstone, he still had trouble deciphering terms not used in everyday conversation, and such was the case with the surgeon’s medical jargon. But Hearthstone realized that words were not the important thing here. Anyone familiar with the niceties of Japanese culture could ignore the words, concentrate only on Taoka’s body language, and easily recognize the true intent of the surgeon’s visit.
Dr. Taoka was here to beg forgiveness.
Hearthstone closed his eyes and let Taoka’s quiet words engulf him. Cloaked in the surgeon’s explanations were effusive excuses beyond number. The professor sighed mightily, and Taoka began to speak faster.
The true hell of it was that the surgeon’s explanations made perfect sense. After all, Dr. Taoka had come to Hearthstone with high recommendations and an excellent reputation among the most conservative elements of the Tokyo medical community. But Hearthstone, unfettered from the chains of logic and reason during his bride’s long illness, had an increasingly difficult time processing information that should have made perfect sense.
The old man fought his suspicions, watching the surgeon’s lips twist as he stumbled over a particularly difficult explanation. Dr. Taoka was not a butcher, he told himself. The surgeon could not be an avenging murderer. He was exactly who, and what, he claimed to be.
And yet…
Taoka was skilled in the use of blades. Hearthstone had watched him from the gallery above the surgery, had seen him take the scalpel from the towel-covered tray, the tray that, covered, existed in shadow. With his own eyes Hearthstone had watched the surgeon put blade to flesh — the flesh of Hearthstone’s bride — and he had noted the familiar intensity that burned in the man’s eyes.
If man he was.
Hearthstone fought against his powerful memory, but a memory that cataloged even the most minor impression could not be dammed. Everything came flooding back. The blade. Taoka’s eyes. The cotton mask that had covered the surgeon’s mouth. Hearthstone had watched the thin material puff out with an exhalation; he’d seen it draw back with Taoka’s next breath.
The mask had drawn tight against a lurid grin. Of that, Hearthstone was certain. And at that moment, standing alone in the gallery, the sibilant hint of a Beethoven sonata issuing from stereo speakers below, Hearthstone had remembered another blade and another woman.
And the same grin.
At that moment, the surgeon made the first deep incision.
At that moment, screaming violins sliced the silence.
And now the surgeon spoke of infection and fever. The diagnosis was poor. Hopeless, really, but Taoka was trying desperately not to say that.
Trying desperately, Hearthstone thought, not to smile.
“Thank you, Doctor Taoka,” the old man said, his Japanese impeccable, his accent perfect. “This is awful news, of course, and I find myself terribly saddened by it. But I would like you to put the best face on your report. A happy face, if you please.”
“Professor Hearthstone… I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”
Hearthstone bent forward. “Sir, I would appreciate it very much if you would smile for me.”
Doctor Taoka was confused. Perhaps this was an American custom with which he was unfamiliar. He made to protest. But as his mind searched for a tactic that would not offend, his lips twisted unbidden into a perplexed grin.
Hearthstone thanked the surgeon and promptly shot him dead.
The first time they met, long before Hearthstone had ever seen Japan, the professor asked, “Are you demon or angel?”
“I am… The Shroud.” The answer came in a purring whisper. “I come for those who are evil. Those who are evil must suffer, then die.”
Hearthstone shivered, embarrassed to be frightened by such base melodrama. Silly to have come here, to headquarters, alone. The stranger had been waiting for him, had slipped from the shadows and whispered that he was an avenger, a ghost.
Don’t surrender to the fear, Hearthstone warned himself. Keep the madman talking until someone comes to check on you. Listen to his insane babbling, and kill him when the odds are in your favor.
Hearthstone turned to the window. Below, the San Francisco streets swam with fog, but it was a low fog. Across the street, it hung far below a theatre marquee bathed in the white glow of overhead lamps, a stark illumination that transformed the reaching gray tendrils into cottony puffs that resembled the cloudy floor of some Hollywood heaven.
Black letters on the marquee.
Ah, true melodrama. Hearthstone chuckled at that. “Sir, if it’s evil you’ve come for, I believe you’ve come to the wrong place. Messieurs Lugosi and Karloff are across the street.”
Silence.
“A small joke,” Hearthstone began, his throat constricting involuntarily as the stranger advanced, quiet as the evening fog. And then words spilled unbidden from the professor’s thin lips, driven by a pure, instinctive terror that he had never experienced previously. “A small joke… from a small, unimportant man. I deal only in narcotics, synthesized through methods I discovered while employed by some of our more adventurous captains of industry. Mere entertainments for the bored and the jaded, those who find no solace in the pleasures approved by modern society… I’m sure you understand. Perhaps you, sir… Perhaps you would like — ”
Laughter echoed from the velvet draperies that hung about the window. The inhuman sound forced Hearthstone to shrink away from the room’s lone source of light.
“Please understand,” Hearthstone begged, stumbling toward his desk, his eyes searching the room, “I am not a rich man, but if it’s money you want… ”
Mellow shadows pooled on the pine floor as The Shroud — now silhouetted in the gray glow of the window — moved forward. Planks complained as if punished by a heavy tread, but the self-proclaimed avenger was drifting toward Hearthstone like the wispy shadow of something floating outside on the night fog. The thing — Hearthstone’s instinctive fear told him that this could not be a man — came closer, its harsh laughter rising.
“A shadowshow for you, Professor. Without fee…”
Another sound. The swish of a cape on the hardwood floor. “Mister Lugosi,” the voice whispered, suddenly tinged with a familiar accent.
Red eyes burned in the darkness. Hearthstone reached out. fingers scrabbling across the stained blotter, and flicked on the desk lamp. The bulb flared, then exploded, and the brief instant of brightness momentarily blinded the professor.
The scent of ozone flooded the stuffy room. Hearthstone caught the sizzle of lightning and the slightest glimpse of a scarred neck spiked with twin bolts. “Mr. Karloff,” the voice enthused.
No longer the sound of a sweeping cape. Now heavy boots beat a slow rhythm across the pine floorboards.
Spots swam before Hearthstone’s eyes. He rubbed at them, blinking away tears. The spots danced, rotated, all but a single black globe that stared him down and made him sob.
“Anyone,” the voice whispered.
A black slit spread across the ebony circle and split into a grin.
“Anywhere… ”
Puddled against the wall.
“Anytime… ”
Slipped toward the window.
“Good night, Jacob Hearthstone,” said The Shroud. “And remember — next comes suffering.”
