Dead Waters - Anton Strout [89]
I threw its strap over my shoulder and started back up the ladder. There was a bit of weight to it, making my climb a little more strained than I would have preferred, and when I reached the top of the ladder, it took both Connor and the Inspectre to hoist me up before closing the trapdoor back over the pit.
I pulled off the bag and laid it down on an empty desk off to my left along the wall. The bag was decorated with an assortment of stitched-on band names and dozens of tiny safety pins everywhere.
“What do we have here?” the Inspectre said, coming over to it.
“It was at the bottom of the well,” I said. “It belonged to that blond kid George, one of Mason’s students. The professor brought him here against his will. He threw him down into the pit after he got what he needed. Blood. But that’s not all.”
“What else?” the Inspectre asked.
“There was something down there with him,” I said. “Couldn’t see anything. It was too dark down there, but it was like a big fish or a snake. It. . . it finished him off.”
Connor undid the short tongue holding the bag closed and flipped the flap open. Using caution, he reached in the bag and started pulled out its contents.
“Books,” he said, laying them down one by one.
The Inspectre spun them so he could read them, adjusting his glasses. “Introduction to Modern Cinema, Principles of Editing . . . The Monster Maker’s Handbook.”
Connor ran his hand over a tear in the outer material of the bag. Something solid and shiny poked through the spot. Connor stuck his hand in the hole and pushed the object out. Its metallic case was crushed in the middle, but there was no mistaking the object. “One laptop,” he said. “Only partially damaged.”
“It must have gotten banged up on the fall,” the Inspectre said.
“No,” I said, “not banged up. Crushed.”
“Crushed?”
“By whatever killed George down there,” I said.
“We need to be talking to living people on this one if we’re going to figure this out,” Connor said. “Think about what we know. The professor was working on a film. What does it take to make a movie?”
The Inspectre’s face lit up. “It takes a village,” he said.
“Exactly,” Connor said. “It takes cast and crew. Lighting, sound, editors . . .”
“And Professor Mason Redfield certainly had some dedicated students out there,” I said. “Wasn’t he expecting them when he was reborn?”
I started gathering up the contents of the bag, readying them to take back to the Lovecraft Café. The Inspectre looked angry.
“Then it’s time to put the screws to the professor’s living students,” he said. “It’s time to stop wasting our resources and get some real answers. We need to figure out why Mason Redfield did all this and what his plans are.”
“We’ll find out,” Connor said, “even if we have to beat it out of them.”
I reached for the bat at my side, patting it in its holster. “Have bat, will travel.”
23
Connor, the Inspectre, and I stopped back at the Department long enough to visit Allorah Daniels. We found the youngest Enchancellor back in her office-slash-lab, where I was surprised to also find Jane with her. I walked over to the two of them with the tattered shoulder bag held up in my right hand. Jane grabbed for it like a kid hungry for presents on Christmas morning.
“Sorry, doll,” I said. “This is going on our lovely Enchancellor’s dance card.”
Allorah looked up from the pile of books in front of her. She did not look happy. “Oh, is it, now?” she asked. “What about Jane’s health? She keeps wanting to go home and shower, but I convinced her that’s not a good idea right now.”
Jane nodded, then scooped up a large glass from the lab table. “I’ve traded up,” she said. “I’ve switched to drinking water, which helps kill the craving to shower.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“Not really,” Allorah said. “That’s her twenty-eighth glass.”
“Twenty-eighth?” I repeated.
Jane put her hand on my arm. “It’s okay. I feel fine.”
“That’s what worries me,” I said. “That would kill a normal person.”
Jane gave a grim smile. “As the mark indicates,