David Robbins: Madman Run

Rising, Blade continued to the far corner. When he strode into the open, he couldn’t quite credit the sight he beheld.

“Will you look at those!” Hickok marveled.

“What in the world are they?” Geronimo asked.

There were six small buildings situated in the middle of the yard, three in one row, three in another. Constructed from polished marble, they were one story in height and approximately 20 feet wide. They were ornately embellished with miniature columns and intricate engravings depicting elaborate scenes.

Blade scratched his chin, reflecting. He’d seen photographs of such buildings, but he couldn’t recall where.

“They’re too dinky to be houses,” Hickok commented.

“Maybe they are memorials of some sort,” Geronimo guessed.

An image flashed into Blade’s mind, a picture in a book dealing with twentieth century social conventions and customs. “They’re mausoleums,” he informed his friends.

“Mauzi-what?” Hickok responded.

“Mausoleums. Places where the rich and famous were buried.”

“Why would anyone want to be buried in a small house?”

“That was the custom before the war. Most people were buried in public cemeteries, and tombstones were placed over their graves. But those with money to spend could have a lasting monument erected in their honor.”

“And I thought Geronimo has a swelled head.”

Blade walked forward. “Loved ones visited regularly and deposited flowers in remembrance of those who died. Caretakers performed regular maintenance and upkeep to keep the tombs in top condition.”

“I’ll never understand the bozos who lived back then,” Hickok said.

“What good is buildin’ a monument if you won’t be around to enjoy it?”

They halted at the first mausoleum and studied the etchings. One scene displayed naked young men and women engaged in leaping over bulls by grabbing the horns and executing acrobatic flips.

“What the dickens is that supposed to be?” the gunman inquired.

“I believe it shows the bullfighters of ancient Crete.”

Blade surmised. “Don’t you remember our classes on the subject?”

Hickok snorted. “I remember the paintings of the soldiers marching off to war or in battle, but I never paid much attention to those other pictures and drawings of men wearin’ dresses and women in their birthday suits prancin’ around trees.”

“What a warped mind,” Geronimo cracked.

The gunfighter disregarded the gibe. “Why would anyone want Cretan bullfighters on their tomb?”

Blade shrugged. “Maybe to show they were students of ancient history.”

“Or to prove they were idiots,” Hickok amended.

The giant moved to the recessed door and tried to open it, without success.

“You’re not plannin’ to go in there?” Hickok declared.

“I’m curious to see what’s inside.”

“I can tell you. An old wooden coffin and a bunch of moldy bones. Let’s leave well enough alone.”

Blade walked to the next tomb, which was slightly bigger than the rest, and stared at a pecular crest engraved near the top: A man in a suit of armor was holding the body of a child in one hand and the head in another.

“Disgusting,” Geronimo said.

“Let me guess,” Hickok stated. “This guy was tryin’ to show that he was fond of the Middle Ages.”

“Makes no sense to me,” Blade chimbed in.

Geronimo dropped to one knee and ran his fingers over the grass. “This is strange.”

“What is?” Blade prompted.

“A lot of people have been here within the past day or two.”

“Standin’ in front of this tomb?” Hickok said skeptically.

“No,” Geronimo answered. “Going into the tomb.”

Blade and the gunfighter exchanged bewildered expressions.

“You’re crazy, pard,” Hickok said.

“Which one of us is the tracker here? I know what I’m talking about. At least ten, possibly fifteen people entered this mausoleum.”

“Did they come out again?” Blade asked.

“It’s difficult to tell. Either they went in first and came out, or they came out, then went in.”

“You must be sufferin’ from heatstroke, pard.”

Blade walked to the next tomb, thoroughly confused by the string of events. What connection was there between the tiny plane, the tilled plots, the apple core and the mausoleums? What was the significance of the laugh? And how did it all tie together with the castle?

He thought about the Founder’s cryptic diary entry. Carpenter mentioned taking a hike and bumping into the castle’s owner, a man named Edward, who had requested that he leave the estate at once.

Although Carpenter tried to be friendly, the owner became angry and even threatened to club him with a walking stick. Rather than provoke the man further, Carpenter returned to the compound.

Blade realized the descendants of the recluse had been on their own for almost a century, completely cut off from the outside world. Perhaps they were simply afraid to make contact. He was more determined than ever to find them and convince them they had nothing to fear. If he practiced a little diplomacy, as his father was always stressing he should do, then he might persuade them to accompany him to the Home. The Family would be delighted at learning there were people living within walking distance, and friendly relations could be established. The Tillers would be very interested in learning the techniques these people used to grow such fine crops and flowers, and perhaps a system of trade could be set up.

The giant idly glanced at the castle and felt a prickling sensation run along his spine. There was someone at one of the windows, staring back.

She stood behind a shadowed pane crisscrossed with cracks, a vague, slim figure attired in what appeared to be a flowing white dress. Raven tresses cascaded over her shoulders. Unfortunately, the murky interior shrouded her facial features.

“Look!” Blade exclaimed.

Hickok and Geronimo spun, the gunfighter starting to go for his guns until he saw the reason for the cry. “It’s a woman!” he blurted.

“What was your first clue?” Geronimo asked.

Suddenly, her white dress flowing, the phantom disappeared to the right.

“We’ve got to get inside,” Blade said and ran to the rear wall. He scrutinized the vines, then reached out and tugged on one to test it. “These might hold our weight.”

“Might?” Geronimo said, glancing at the nearest window.

“Let’s give it a try,” Blade said, slinging the Marlin over his shoulder and jumping with outstretched arms. He grabbed a stout vine and held on fast. “Let me go first. If the vines support me, we know they’ll support the two of you.”

“Good point,” Hickok said. “You have been gettin’ a mite big in the breadbasket.”

“I’m all muscle, and you know it,” Blade stated, commencing the ascent.

“Keep me covered.”

The gunman stared at the windows and the battlement, ready to fire at the slightest hint of a threat.

“At least now we know there’s someone home,” Geronimo noted. “I wonder who she is.”

“The tooth fairy,” Hickok quipped and stiffened at a loud crackling and snapping noise from above. He took one look and tackled Geronimo, bearing both of them backwards.

“What the…!” Geronimo declared.

Blade fell onto the ground, his powerful legs braced for the impact, and stumbled a few feet before he caught himself. “The vines won’t hold,” he informed them.

“No foolin’,” Hickok said, rising to his knees. “You could have yelled or something. We were almost squished into pancakes.”

“Sorry. It all happened so fast.”

Geronimo stood. “No harm done.”