Free Stones Unturned by Christopher Golden Page B

probably something relatively important since no one ever called the Doyle residence just to shoot the shit.
    The hobgoblin reached down under the leather seat cushion, fishing for the phone, and finally found it behind him, wedged beneath his left buttock. He stared at the Caller ID and saw the name Hook. It took him a minute, but then he remembered Hook was the homicide detective that Conan Doyle had assisted with some matters over the last few years.
    "Thrill me," Squire said as he picked up, quoting the great thespian Tom Atkins from one of his '80s favorites, Night of the Creeps .
    There was a long pause, but he knew somebody was there.
    "Hello?" He was ready to hang up if nobody started talking.
    "Is this the Doyle residence?" the voice on the other end asked tentatively.
    "You got it," Squire replied. "What can I do for you?"
    He turned the volume down on the television set. His sweet potato of a housewife had won the Waveriders and was jumping around like a duck on a hotplate. Bobby B was practically knocked unconscious by her overflowing excitement.
    I'd like to show her some overflowing excitement , the hobgoblin thought, waiting for the detective to spill his reason for calling.
    "I'm looking for Joe Clay," the man said. "I saw him last night — but something's come up this morning that I think he . . ."
    "Clay ain't here," Squire interrupted. "Is there something I could do, Detective?"
    "You know who I am?" Hook asked, surprise in his voice.
    "Mr. Doyle told me all about you," Squire replied. "Said we should give you a hand whenever we could. So what's the scoop?"
    "I'm in an alley way off of Tremont Street," the detective began. "The remains of two bodies were found here this morning by an old lady walking her dogs. And they aren't the first. There's another crime scene just like it in Copley station."
    "Go on," Squire said, helping himself to another handful of Pringles. "What's the angle?" he asked. "You wouldn't be calling here if it was just your average homicide."
    "One of the bodies," Hook started. "One of them appears to be partially eaten and the other . . . the other is missing all its skin. The one in the T station was even worse."
    Squire swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "I can see why you called," he said. "Have the remains been removed yet?"
    "The Copley victim, yeah. But not these two. Not yet," Hook said. "Forensics is finishing up at the scene now and —"
    "Don't move anything," Squire told him. "I wanna check out the scene."
    "I'm not sure how long I can hold them off," Hook explained. "How quickly can you get down here?"
    "Give me a minute to get on a shirt and some pants," he told the detective.
    "How will I know you?" Hook asked him.
    "Just look for the handsome son of a bitch stepping out of the shadows," the hobgoblin replied, and broke the connection.
    So much for Squire time.
     
    Danny had always loved the New England Aquarium.
    He stood to one side, away from the line, as his mother bought their tickets. It was cold today, and the wind was blowing across the harbor. People wearing heavy coats and hats stamped their feet in line, trying to stay warm, but Danny really didn't feel it. He was wearing a heavy hooded sweatshirt, a wool cap on his head to cover his horns, and dark sunglasses to protect his sensitive eyes from the glaring sun and hide their yellow, reptilian look. The clothing wasn't meant to keep him warm, only to hide the changes to his body.
    His mother left the head of the line, putting her change away inside her wallet. "Let's go inside," she said. "It's freezing out here."
    "Yeah, freezing," Danny answered.
    Stepping into the semidark, concrete building, Danny felt a comforting wave of nostalgia. For a brief moment, he was able to tune it all out — the people pushing strollers, the school field trips, the knowledge of how much he had changed over the last few weeks — and he remembered how it felt to be that kid again, that ten-year-old boy who loved the