Exhumed

The day that Caradoc Dearborn came to Philip Shoskey's office, a stretching gray rain had settled on London. When asked, Philip would rave until his face was purple that this was perfect because all the bad things in his life had happened on rainy days. And getting mixed up in a world of magic and wizards and spells and war definitely ranked among the top ten 'Worst Days of Philip Shoskey's Life'.

However, Philip didn't know this yet. His chair was tipped back on the hinge, the leather squelching high pitched wet sounds as he settled deeper into it, his legs propped up on a stack of depositions and wills that he knew were nearly passed they're 'past due' dates. Still, his head ached from the alcohol that was still flowing through his veins, sluggish and thick from last night, and the rain had made his arthritis act up in his left hand. In his desk, in the second to last drawer on the left, there was a half finished bottle of scotch. More than enough to warm up his bones. More than enough to make his hand stop throbbing and his head release pressure.

Back in the States, he used to keep the scotch in his bottom drawer. That was back before 'Nam, though, and come to think of it, it had been raining that day, too. He was young---only 20 years old ---dumb and stupid, and had gone headfirst into the war with all the enthusiasm that only a young, dumb and stupid boy can have. His father had warned him that war wasn't glamorous and fighting didn't give a man pride. He had even found Philip a flat up in Canada with an old friend too indebted to Philip's old man to ever repay him with hard currency. Philip had thrown a mighty fit, pulled the scotch from the bottom drawer of his desk, and thrown back three shots before he'd thrown three punches to his father.

Yeah, it had been raining. Lightening snapped the sky in two, and the thunder echoed on the tension in the air. Each time lightening flashed, Philip would see his dad, lying on the floor, blood that looked black dripping from the corner of his mouth, eyes drawn and sad and hopeless. At the time, he'd hopped it up to a trick of the light, lighting hollows and angles Philip had never seen before. To this day, he didn't consider that maybe he'd seen more of his father's heart on that day than ever before.

That was why when Terry Rosier had suggested using the bottom drawer for something other than alcohol, he'd been more than happy to oblige. Maybe moving the scotch up a drawer shouldn't have seemed like a drastic step, but he hoped his father had seen it, watching from wherever it is the dead watch. Hoped he'd seen it because Philip had always kept the scotch in the bottom drawer, and moving it up showed that he'd changed somewhere along the line, and maybe his father would've liked some of these changes.

But thinking of Terry Rosier, and another rainy day in London, had pushed him passed whatever had stilled his hand from the bottle. He slid his hand under the family portrait, careful to keep his eyes from lingering on the black and white photograph in the silver frame behind it, and pulled out a golden key. It looked double ended, as if it could unlock more than only Philip's secrets, and had a roaring lions head gilded onto either side. For a moment, he ran the pads of his thumb across the emblem, feeling the slick, cold sheen of the metal against his skin, and was uncomfortably reminded of the metal frame of the gurney as it rolled down the hospital hall, away into the morgue.

Philip shook his head, as if trying to shake off this line of thinking the way one might try to clear cobwebs from a dusty trunk, and slid the key into the lock. A moment later, he was uncorking the bottle, taking a premature swig of the scotch as he set up a shot glass. He poured, the amber liquor sloshing up the sides of the shot glass, puddling on his desk. Philip straightened, stretched a moment, stood, and walked to the door. "Anna," he called to his secretary. Anna looked up from a planner she was writing in, pressing her glasses further up her nose. "No more today, all right? If anyone stops in, I already went home."

Anna didn't have the chance to respond, because as quickly as the door had swung in, it had slammed shut. A moment passed, and she heard the click as Philip turned the deadbolt lock to his office door, and then silence. She sighed, flipping back to the date book, her mind uneasy with the thought of Philip and his scotch. Last time, she'd had to call him a cab to get back home, drunk as he was. That had been last week, three years to the day since his wife had left him, and she silently wondered what had pushed him over the edge this time around.

Philip threw back three shots before he stopped a moment, closing his eyes tight, feeling his mind unravel behind the lids of his eyes. He smiled as the liquor swam through his blood stream, warming his ice capped mind in the same way fire warmed frostbitten finger tips. Two more shots down the hatch, up to five, a sixth one poured and ready to follow the burning strip down his throat. Philip hesitated, setting the sixth shot back on the desk carefully, the glass still nearly tipping with his unsteady liquored hands.

His eyes, beady and watery and half shut, focused for a moment on the black and white photograph. Someday, he thought, it'd be a good idea to take this down. It had been years since she'd died. All he had left was sitting here on his desk. Even the sound of her voice had faded from his ears over time.

She wouldn't have been called beautiful by those who didn't know her. Terry Rosier's hair had the texture of golden yarn, itchy to the touch but unique and lovely in its own right. Her nose was small, and was too far up for her mouth, too close to her eyes, reminding Philip of a hamster he'd owned as a child. In this picture, she was all odd angles and elbows and knees, length of legs and arms curling around each other awkwardly. For a moment, he could almost forget that, even though neither of them knew it, the cancer was solidifying in her lung. Soon, her skin would begin to take on a wintery pale complexion, and her cheek bones would jut too much. Her eyes would be too wide for her face, the whites around the irises too well defined by the shadows that hung under her sockets.

"Goddamned rain," he told himself, swallowing the sixth shot, pouring the seventh with shaky hands. He spilt more scotch than he'd gotten in the glass. By now, the taste was gone, the rich smooth weight of the expensive alcohol comparable to the cheap American beer he'd once been fond of.

Philip never drank the seventh shot, because all Hell broke loose in his lobby.

* * * * *

Anna was used to unsavory characters finding their way into Philip Shoskey's Law Firm. Some time ago, she was told that Philip had been an amazing defense attorney, one of the top-ranked lawyers in the London area. She'd never doubted it; each day, she sat at a solid cherry oak wood desk that despite its years was still glossy and deep and beautiful. High above her head, the lighting fixtures were bright and danced with the facets of the glass cut to make the chandelier. However, Philip had once also been huge in the pro-bono scene. His passion for the law---even more than his reputation for being ruthless, cunning, authoritative, and successful in the court room---often pulled people from the shallowest walks of life into the office.

Still, something about the man prickled her nerves. The hair on the back of her arms stood on end, the back of her neck becoming balmy with dark anxiety. "May I help you, sir?"

The man stopped at the door, cocked his head to one side. "Rosier," he told her, and when she raised an eyebrow at him, he waved his hand in dismissal.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but Mr. Shoskey only does inheritance and wills and the like now. Have you any business with legal documents? In which case, I'm sure he could help you---" Anna's hand hovered over the speed dial into Philip's office, the phone lying off its cradle.

"No, no legal documents," the man said, a hacking cough rattling the final word. "Please, Rosier. The lady Rosier."

"Sir, there is no Rosier here---"

"But you said Philip Shoskey!" The man had crossed the lobby, and on the final syllable, had brought both hands, fisted, down onto her desk. The room seemed to bellow with his easy temper. "Rosier always spoke of a Philip Shoskey! If this is Philip Shoskey's, this is the lady Rosier's!"

Anna could feel tears building in the corners of her eyes. "Sir, Mr. Shoskey has gone home for the evening. If I could take your name, of perhaps if you came back tomorrow he could see you, discuss the lady Rosier with you if you like."

The man stood straight, as if considering this. "Caradoc Dearborn," he told Anna, and Anna hurried to scribble the name on a scrap sheet of paper. If nothing else, the man was obviously insane, a danger to the general public. "And Mr. Shoskey is here," his eyes slid across the room, drinking in his surroundings more quickly than Anna could register. Caradoc's eyes stopped on the office door, leading to Philip Shoskey. A light shone from the bottom sliver of the door, and through the space between the door jam and the door. A solid block of metal bridged the gap, protruding both the door and the wall. A lock. A lock, he noticed, that had no key hole to the outside. Caradoc took a few steadying breaths, coming to himself for the first time in nearly two decades. "Is Mr. Shoskey in there? I really need to speak with him. Now. Today."

Anna gaped, her fingers frozen over the touch pads of the phone. Caradoc could feel his easy calm falling away, the more desperate and feral part of his mind---the half of his mind that had kept him alive all these years---creeping to the forefront. Before he could stop himself, his hand was gripping Anna's upper arm. "ARE YOU DAFT, WOMAN?" The words rebounded heavily off the walls. Caradoc pulled himself away, cradling his head in his hands. When he next spoke, each word was cautious and measured, radiating with control. "Please, I NEED to speak with Philip Shoskey immediately. It's a matter of life and death---" He paused, gathering himself again, pressing back against instinct with rationality. "---life and death, you see, and if I don't speak with the lady Rosier, he could die tonight. Tonight."

Anna didn't move, didn't register. Caradoc felt his control slipping away. Before he could check himself, he'd pulled the phone off the desk, chucking it as hard as he could at the bay window. It bounced back, sending a spider-web through the glass, the phone lying in pieces on the floor. "TONIGHT!"

"Goddammit, Anna! What the Hell is going on out here? Sounds like a Goddamned circus---" Philip's words were slurred, and it took him three tries before the lock slid back into the door. A moment later, a bleary-eyed Philip was staring out at the two of them.

"Philip Shoskey?" Caradoc asked, cautiously approaching.

One look at the man, and Philip knew this was not a conversation he had any desire to be a part of. Especially not when he was half in the hole for the night. The man was wearing---was that a dress? Yes, a black dress that was threadbare in all the places where it wasn't torn entirely. Pieces of skin were visible through the holes. His hair was gnarled, tangling into his beard until they were one and the same. Streaks of premature silver ran through the mess. Philip turned back into his office, slid the lock with considerably less trouble than he'd opened it with, and prepared to call the police.

"NO!" Caradoc called, his fists pounding on the door. The thud of his hands against the wood rang throughout the office. Anna watched, sickly transfixed and unable to turn away, unable to move, unable to run. From where she stood behind her desk, Anna could see the purpling of the fleshy part of the man's fists, the side of his pinky blue with blood.

Then, the man stopped. He leaned his head into his hands again, messaging his fingers into his forehead as if trying to ward of an oncoming headache. His eyes teared, and soon, he was crying with heavy sobs that shook his thin frame.

Anna took a couple of cautious steps toward the man, her hands out and exposed, trying to mimic the way she'd approach a wounded animal. "Sir," she said quietly, "sir, if you like, we can call the hospital. Have them look you over. You're hands must hurt, and maybe you're a bit sick today. No one---" she gulped, fear imbedded in every word, "No one will hold it against you, sir. We've all had rotten days, and maybe if we just called to get some medical---"

Caradoc's head snapped up, his hands raising high over his head, and he brought them down into the door again. "PLEASE, Mr. Shoskey! Please, just SPEAK with me! Please, sir, PLEASE!"

His hands fell to his sides. "PLEASE!"

And the door shattered, tiny slivers dashing across the room. Anna screamed, and ducked beneath her desk.

Caradoc stood, and approached Philip, who was watching him with wide eyes, the receiver of the phone to his ear, his fingers dabbing at the numbers on the phone, but missing. "Please, Mr. Shoskey, I need to speak with you. It's in regards to a Ms. Terry Rosier."

Philip could feel the world stop. The lion head key was still lying on his desk, and at her name, he grabbed it, tucking the metal into his meaty fist. "How do you---" his voice shook, he stopped, clearing his throat and trying to find a way to push his stomach back out of his throat, "how do you know Terry?"

"Where is she? She must know---she must know!"

"What must she know, Mr---"

"Please, call me Caradoc." Caradoc could feel his logical half coming back, his half-wild mind settling back into the depths of his subconscious. "Mr. Shoskey, Terry is a friend of one, Ms. Evans. Or rather, Mrs. Potter now, I suppose."

"You mean Lily," it wasn't a question, and Philip could feel his grip tightening on the key.

"Yes, Ms. Lily Evans. Or, Mrs. Lily Potter. We must find her, either way---"

"I'm afraid Lily is dead, Caradoc. As is Terry." The words came easily, despite the weight they created in the pit of his stomach. Maybe it was the scotch, he thought. Maybe he really had drunk more than he'd intended.

"Dead? No, sir, that isn't possible---it can't be, because, see, he's not and---" Caradoc was still speaking, but the words were rolling together like waves, breaking into one another until nothing was left of their shape, only the strength behind them.

Philip was leaning down, falling carefully to his knees, his hands shaking. Cupped in his right hand was the key, and slowly, he slid the key into the lock. The lock clicked, moving slowly, aged with rust and under use. The drawer slid open, and inside, a small wooden box with a golden padlock, covered in dust, stood. "Caradoc," Philip said, interrupting the other man, "this is all I have that could mean anything. It's the only thing regarding Lily I have from Terry."

Philip dropped the box onto the carpet. It landed with a heavy thud, and for one moment, Philip almost felt like Terry was standing beside him.