Board game; cardboard, paper, bone
Provenance: Chicago, Illinois; c. 1919 Donor:
Book and Snake, 1936
A version of the Landlord’s Game that bears strong resemblance to itslater incarnation, Monopoly. Place names taken from Chicago andsurrounds. Dice are crafted from bone, most likely human. Someevidence suggests the handmade board was created at Princeton, but thedice were added and the game came into heavy use during Prohibition,when a brief flurry of occult activity centered around D. G. Nelson’sbookshop resulted in an increased demonic presence on the north side ofthe city. The bright colors and constant bargaining required by the gamemake it instantly appealing, while two factors— impenetrable rules andinterminable gameplay that can last hours, if not days—render itvirtually unwinnable. It is, in short, a perfect trap for demons.
Unfortunately, one of the dice was lost at some point and efforts atreplacement have proven unsuccessful.
—from the Lethe Armory Catalogue as revised and edited by
Pamela Dawes, Oculus
14
Turner couldn’t just walk away from an active crime scene, but he agreed to pick her up the next morning after Modern Poets. Word of Dean Beekman’s death had spread quickly, and an uneasy mood settled over campus. Life continued on, the rush of people and business to be done, but Alex saw groups of students standing with their arms around each other weeping. Some wore black or tweedy bucket hats. She saw flyers up for a vigil in the Morse
courtyard. She couldn’t help but think of the morning after Tara’s body had been found, the false hysterics, the gossipy buzz that had moved through the university like a giddy swarm of hornets. Alex understood that Beeky had been beloved, a father figure, a character woven into the fabric of Yale. But she remembered the excitement that had followed Tara’s death, the danger a step removed, a new flavor to be tried without any risk.
This was true grief, real fear. Alex’s professor began her lecture by talking about how Dean Beekman and his wife had hosted her at their home one Thanksgiving and how anyone who knew Beeky never felt alone at Yale.
The dean’s office at Morse had been sealed off and safety officers posted at the door—Yale police, not NHPD. The university president was holding an emergency meeting for concerned students in Woolsey Hall that night. The Yale Daily News had written up a brief summary of the murder— a suspected robbery, police already pursuing a strong lead outside of the New Haven community. That smacked of spin: Don’t worry, parents, this isn’t a Yale crime, it isn’t even a New Haven crime. No need to pack your children off to Cambridge. If Professor Stephen’s death had barely caused a ripple, Dean Beekman’s murder was like someone heaving a grand piano into a lake.
Turner picked up Alex in front of one of the new hotels on Chapel, far enough from the crime scene and campus that neither of them had to worry about being spotted. She tried to prepare him on the way to Black Elm, but he didn’t say a word as she gave him the bare-bones account of her theory on Darlington and how against all odds she’d been proven right. Turner just let her talk, sitting in cold silence, as if he were a mannequin who’d been placed behind the steering wheel to demonstrate safe driving. Only yesterday she’d given Mercy a similar speech, but Mercy had soaked it all up and come back hungry for more. Turner looked like he might just drive them both off a cliff.
She had texted Dawes that they were on their way to Black Elm because it seemed like the right thing to do, but Alex regretted it as soon as she saw her standing at the front door in her shapeless sweats, her bright red hair in its usual lopsided bun, like a lumpy candle topped by an unexpected flame.
Her lips were compressed in a disapproving line.
“She looks happy,” Turner observed.
“Does anyone look happy when they see the cops coming?”
“Yes, Miss Stern, people having their shit stolen or trying to avoid being stabbed usually do seem happy to see us.”
At least she knew Turner had been listening on the drive over. Only talk of magic and the occult could put him in this kind of mood.
“Centurion,” Dawes greeted him, and Alex winced.
“My name is Detective Abel Turner and you damn well know it. You look exhausted, Dawes. They’re not paying you enough.”
Dawes looked surprised, then said, “Probably not.”
“I left an open case file to be here. Can we get this going?”
Dawes led them inside, but once they were trailing Turner up the stairs, she whispered, “This is a bad idea.”
Alex agreed, but she also didn’t see what choice they had.
“He’s going to tell Anselm,” Dawes fretted as they followed Turner down the hall to the ballroom. “The new Praetor. The police!”
“No, he’s not.” At least Alex hoped he wouldn’t. “We need his help and that means we need to show him what we’re up against.”
“Which is what exactly? Just admit you’re making it up as you go along.”
She was. But something in her gut was pulling her back to Black Elm and she had dragged Turner right along with her.
“If you have any other ideas, just say the word, Dawes. Do you know any murderers?”
“Other than you?”
“He can help us. And he needs our help too. Dean Beekman was murdered.”
Dawes stopped dead. “What?”
“Did you know him?”
“Of course I knew him. Everyone knew him. I took one of his classes when I was an undergrad. He—”
“Christ on a bike.”
Turner had frozen in the doorway to the ballroom and he did not look like he had any intention of going in. He took a step backward, one hand extended as if to ward off what he was seeing, his other hand resting on his gun.
“You can’t shoot him,” Alex said with all the calm she could muster. “At least I don’t think you can.”
Dawes ran to the doorway, placing herself between Turner and the golden circle like some kind of human shield. “I told you this was a terrible idea!”
“What is this?” demanded Turner. His jaw was set, his brow lowered, but there was fear in his eyes. “What am I even seeing?”
