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By Root 2864 0

violently again, I turned and bolted up the street toward the cemetery, fully believing that the little man who I figured for some kind of assassin was going to follow me and that I was in a race for my life. I didn’t look back—I’d seen how quick El Niño was, and I didn’t want to slow down for even a second. When I hit the northern edge of the fenced-in cemetery, I got within sight of Miss Howard, who had her back to me. Not wanting to scream for help, I just picked up my pace, hoping that she’d catch the sound of my feet. She soon did, and when I was about thirty feet from her and she could see the look on my face, she pulled out her revolver, holding and aiming it with practiced skill at the area behind me. Much relieved, I kept on running toward her; but then, when I saw her face go blank and her arms drop to her sides in confusion, I slowed down. She just looked at me and shrugged, and I stopped altogether, gasping for air and finally glancing behind me.

The little aborigine was nowhere to be seen.

Miss Howard walked quickly over to join me as I leaned down, hands on my knees, to take in some big gulps of air and spit into the street.

“Stevie,” she said quietly, “what’s happened?”

“That servant of Señor Linares’s,” I answered. “El Niño—he was down there!”

In a flash Miss Howard brought her pistol up again, though only as far as her hip this time. “What was he doing?”

“Just—watching me,” I answered, finally getting my breathing under control. “And he made a sign with his hands—Miss Howard, I think he meant to kill me. But it was strange—he was smiling, too, the whole time.”

With her free hand she grabbed my right arm and pulled me toward the cemetery gate. “Come on,” she said. “The Doctor’ll want to know about this.”

I’ve never counted myself a religious man, really; but when we got to the gate I looked inside the graveyard and saw a scene what struck me as so unholy that I stopped dead in my tracks. The area directly ahead of us was lit partly by the moon, but also by the faint glow of a pair of arc streetlamps what stood just outside the back fence of the cemetery. Together, these sources of light made it pretty impossible to mistake what was going on: the Doctor was crouched over a small coffin, his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up. The lid of the coffin lay to one side, along with a pile of dirt from a nearby open grave. In the Doctor’s gloved hands were a scalpel and a pair of steel forceps: he was working quickly but carefully, like a man carving a turkey at a table full of hungry people. Mr. Moore was standing to one side and looking away, a handkerchief over his mouth. It was pretty apparent that he’d been sick in the last few minutes.

“Wait,” was all I could say as Miss Howard started into the cemetery. “It ain’t—it ain’t worth interrupting him. We can tell him when he comes out.”

Miss Howard gave me the once-over in a way what said she completely understood my reluctance. “You stay here and keep watch,” she said. “But I’ve got to tell him—the aborigine may not have been alone. Do you want my revolver?”

I looked down at the thing, but just shook my head in reply; like I’ve said, guns were never my style. Miss Howard walked quickly in to Mr. Moore and the Doctor, and though I couldn’t hear what they said, I could see looks of extreme alarm register on both their faces. But we’d come too far to break the thing off now, even I knew that; so the two men just sent Miss Howard back to the gate, and then the Doctor returned to his work with even more energy. I looked farther down Ballston Avenue and saw Cyrus, who was peering back toward us, obviously wanting to know what the hell was going on.

I thought to run up and tell him; but then I heard a satisfied sound—one what was maybe just a little too loud, given the situation—come from the Doctor’s direction. Turning, I saw him holding something up between his gloved fingers: it had to be the bullet. Mr. Moore looked at the thing and patted the Doctor’s back with a smile of relief. Then they quickly started to get the lid back onto the coffin. Looking