I muttered a reply and we crept forward. Finally, Rankin stopped
and shone the flashlight's beam on a freshly chiseled gravestone.
On it, it read:
DANILE WHEATHERBY
1899 1962
He has joined his beloved wife in a better land.
I felt a shovel thrust into my hands and suddenly I was sure that I
couldn't go through with it. But I remembered the bursar shaking
his head and saying, "I'm afraid we can't give you any more time,
Dan. You'll have to leave today. If I could help in any way, I
would, believe me ..."
I dug into the still soft earth and lifted it over my shoulder. Perhaps
fifteen minutes later my shovel came in contact with wood. The
two of us quickly excavated the hole until the coffin stood revealed
under Rankin's flashlight. We jumped down and heaved the coffin
up.
Numbed, I watched Rankin swing the spade at the locks and seals.
After a few blows it gave and we lifted the lid. The body of Daniel
Wheatherby looked up at us with glazed eyes. I felt horror gently
wash over me. I had always thought that the eyes closed when one
died.
"Don't just stand there," Rankin whispered, "it's almost four.
We've got to get out of here!"
We wrapped the body in a sheet and lowered the coffin back into
the earth. We shoveled rapidly and carefully replaced the sod. The
dirt we had missed was scattered.
By the time we picked up the white-sheeted body, the first traces
of dawn were beginning to lighten the sky in the east. We went
through the hedge that skirted the cemetery and entered the woods
that fronted it on the west. Rankin expertly picked his way through
it for a quarter of a mile until we came to the car, parked where we
had left it on an overgrown and unused wagon track that had once
been a road. The body was put into the trunk. Shortly thereafter,
we joined the stream of commuters hurrying for the 6.00 train.
I looked at my hands as if I had never seen them before. The dirt
under my fingernails had been piled up on top of a man's final
resting place not twenty-four hours ago. It felt unclean.
Rankin's attention was directed entirely on his driving. I looked at
him and realized that he didn't mind the repulsive act that we had
just performed. To him it was just another job. We turned off the
main road and began to climb the twisting, narrow dirt road. And
then we came out into the open and I could see it, the huge
rambling Victorian mansion that sat on the summit of the steep
grade. Rankin drove around back and wordlessly up to the steep
rock face of a bluff that rose another forty feet upward, slightly to
the right of the house.
There was a hideous grinding noise and a portion of the hill large
enough to carve an entrance for the car slid open. Rankin drove in
and killed the engine. We were in a small, cube-like room that
served as a hidden garage. Just then, a door at the far end slid open
and a tall, rigid man approached us.
Steffen Weinbaum's face was much like a skull; his eyes were
deep-set and the skin was stretched so tautly over his cheekbones
that his flesh was almost transparent.
"Where is it?" His voice was deep, ominous.
Wordlessly, Rankin got out and I followed his lead. Rankin opened
the trunk and we pulled the sheet-swaddled figure out.
Weinbaum nodded slowly.
"Good, very good. Bring him into the lab."
CHAPTER TWO
When I was thirteen, my parents were killed in an automobile
crash. It left me an orphan and should have landed me in an
orphan's home. But my father's will disclosed the fact that he had
left me a substantial sum of money and I was self-reliant. The
welfare people never came around and I was left in the somewhat
bizarre role as the sole tenant of my own house at thirteen. I paid
the mortgage out of the bank account and tried to stretch a dollar as
far as possible.
By the time I was eighteen and was out of school, the money was
low, but I wanted to go to college. I sold the house for $10,000.00
through a real estate buyer. In early September, the roof fell in. I
received a very nice letter from Erwin, Erwin and Bradstreet,
attorneys at law. To put it in layman's language, it said that the
department store at which my father had been employed had just
got around to a general audit of their books. It seemed that there
was $15,000.00 missing and that they had proof that my father had
stolen it. The rest of the letter merely stated that if I didn't pay up
the $15,000.00 we'd got to court and they would try to get double
the amount.
It shook me up and a few questions that should have stood out in
my mind just didn't register as a result. Why didn't they uncover
the error earlier? Why were they offering to settle out of court?
I went down to the office of Erwin, Erwin, & Bradstreet and talked
the matter over. To make a long story short, I paid the sum there
were asking, I had no more money.
The next day I looked up the firm of Erwin, Erwin & Bradstreet in
the phone book. It wasn't listed. I went down to their office and
found a For Rent sign on the door. It was then that I realized that I
had been conned like gullible kid which, I reflected miserably
was what I was.
I bluffed my way through the first for months of college but finally
they discovered that I hadn't been properly registered.
That same day I met Rankin at a bar. It was my first experience in
a tavern. I had a forged driver's license and I bough enough
whiskey to get drunk. I figured that it would take about two
straight whiskeys since I had never had anything but a bottle of
beer now and then prior to that night.
One felt good, two made my trouble seem rather inconsequential. I
was nursing my third when Rankin entered the bar.
He sat on the stool next to me and looked attentively at me.
"You got troubles?" I asked rudely.
Rankin smiled. "Yes, I'm out to find a helper."
"Oh, yeah?" I asked, becoming interested. "You mean you want to
hire somebody?"
"Yes."
""Well, I'm your man."
He started to say something and then changed his mind.
"Let's go over to a booth and talk it over, shall we?"
We walked over to a booth and I realized that I was listing slightly.
Rankin pulled the curtain.
"That's better. Now, you want a job?"
I nodded.
"Do you care what it is?"
"No. Just how much does it pay?"
"Five hundred a job."
I lost a little bit of the rosy fog that encased me. Something was
wrong here. I didn't like the way he used the word "job".
"Who do I have to kill?" I asked with a humorless smile.
"You don't'. But before I can tell you what it is, you'll have to talk
with Mister Weinbaum."
"Who's he?"
"A scientist."
More fog evaporated. I got up.
"Uh-uh. No making a human guinea pig out of yours truly. Get
yourself another boy."
"Don't be silly," he said, "No harm will come to you."
Against my better judgement, I said, "Okay, let's go."
CHAPTER 3
Weinbaum approached the subject of my duties after a tour of the
house, including the laboratory. He wore a white smock and there
was something about him that made me crawl inside. He sat down
in the living room and motioned me into a seat. Rankin had
disappeared. Weinbaum stared at me with fixed eyes and once
again I felt a blast of icy coldness sweep over me.
"I'll put it to you bluntly," he said, "my experiments are too
complicated to explain in any detail, but they concern human flesh.
Dead human flesh."
I was becoming intensely aware that his eyes burnt with flickering