At the questioning looks the next morning, Murdock apologized and said he would sincerely try not to injure himself any more. He knew it was hard for them to believe that, because deep down, it was hard for him to believe it too. But he felt that if B.A. gave up on his profane artwork and Face finished that unholy book, they could wrap this up and leave it all behind.

Once they were done, instead of going off with Face somewhere, maybe he'd voluntarily check himself into a psych ward for a few weeks. Just to dust off the cobwebs, have someone else take care of him for a bit, and not be a burden to the group.

Murdock kept those thoughts private.

B.A. confirmed Murdock's story, but, just as the pilot had, omitted the information about his sketches sending him into a self-mutilation fit. The black man didn't know why Murdock hadn't mentioned his drawings, but was grateful for it.

Outside was stormy and cold, and although Hannibal had outlined the objectives for the day, no one else seemed motivated to actually do any work.

Face's ennui was palatable, and he ignored Hannibal's plan with a wave of his hand and slipped back upstairs. The older man watched him go with narrowed eyes, and chewed the end of his cigar fretfully. It was obvious by the creaking of the floorboards he'd gone back to his bedroom, and they could all imagine him pouring over the French book once more.

Hannibal didn't say anything aloud, but his irritation at being blown off was read loud and clear by the other two. They scattered too.

B.A.'s hands—both of them now—itched maddingly. Mid-morning he went to his room and found the carving under his pillow where he'd stored it. Holding the piece made the tingling bearable.

The blood stains on his sheets had dried to a darker reddish brown. He stared down at them, a small voice in the back of his head telling him he needed to change those soiled things, that was Murdock's blood, and it was disgusting. But as he rolled the statue between his palms, he realized with a start that the color of dried blood was reminiscent of the color of the statue.

That made him smile, and when he touched the slightly stiffened fabric with one hand while holding the carving in the other, the itching went away completely.


Hannibal did go out by himself, later that day. Murdock and Face stayed in their respective rooms, and B.A. wandered around aimlessly through the house. He had vowed to the pilot that he wouldn't sketch any more, although why he kept that stupid promise he didn't quite know. Having explored the main living areas, he extended his search to the attic—nothing up there but yellowed newspapers that were too delicate to open and read, and cobwebs—and down into the basement.

The basement was damp and cool, with a packed dirt floor. Under the fly-specked light bulbs, B.A. found some rusted tools. That sort of thing always caught his interest, and he organized them. Hammers, screwdrivers, and awls went in a pile; saws, manual drills, and an old axe went in another.

He liked the orderly division of them. He also liked the quiet in the cellar.

Upstairs, whether the first floor or the attic, he could still hear Murdock talking to himself. Faceman had apparently started in on that habit too, because B.A. had heard odd droning from his room as well. But down here, a full floor away, there was no sound at all.

He sat on the wooden steps and stared at the tools.


By the time Hannibal was back, B.A. had left the basement and Murdock had wandered carefully downstairs. As an apology for his behavior earlier, he said he'd make dinner, but neither of them seemed too hungry. Face didn't make an appearance.

"I got a few more ideas on leads for Jones," Hannibal told the other two. "I checked out one of them today—it was a book store he mentioned that sells rare and antique books."

"Any luck?"

"The owner wasn't the most helpful person in the world, no," the older man replied. "He insisted he'd never seen Mr. Jones, and when I asked him about the two books, he pretended he didn't know what I was talking about."

"What do you mean, pretended?" B.A. asked.

Hannibal smirked. "He claimed that his store carried books that couldn't be found anywhere else, that he had connections all over the world for antiquities. But when I actually gave him the titles, he blanched and refused to say anything more about the quality of his collection."

"Huh," was all the black man could reply.

"The weather's supposed to be just as rainy tomorrow," Hannibal said, "but we're going out. I want Face to take a crack at that bookstore owner, and I want you and Murdock to head over to the cemetery again. We didn't get the most comprehensive look before because it closed early. I think if you get over there earlier and really concentrate on the specific graves Face said Jones marked down—"

"Wasn't it plots?" Murdock interrupted. "Didn't Face say plots? Those can be different than graves."

Hannibal closed his eyes a moment. "I think it's just semantics, Murdock. The one cemetery is so old it isn't used anymore, so graves or plots, what's the difference?"

Murdock bit his tongue so hard it was visible in his closed mouth. Hannibal looked at him with sharp eyes.

"You with us, Captain? You're going out with B.A. tomorrow. You know that?"

"I know that," he mumbled quietly.

The older man nodded. "Good. You have any problems with that plan, B.A.?"

B.A. held up his hands to show he wasn't against anything. Hannibal nodded again, told Murdock dinner finally sounded like a good idea, and left the room to settle into the front parlor with a book and cigar.