Chenoo II

The wind tugged at his hair and wanted to sweep it into his eyes.  He merely shook his head against the night and continued on his way unhindered by the winter gale.  Ice crystals sought to blind him but they were less of a nuisance than his hair.  The fur coat he wore was thick enough to keep the chill off of his back as the wind pushed and pulled him along the path he trod.  The snow had abated and a bright moon shown down on the twilight landscape but the wind still whipped up thick sheets reducing visibility down to nothing.  Even so he trudged along in the frigid night.  He wanted to get to shelter before daybreak and he knew of a cave that had afforded him rest in the past.

His stride covered the ground quickly and he made good time in his travels.  The mountain range was just ahead and he picked out landmarks that guided him toward shelter.  A drop in the wind brought to his nose the scent of something strange, something foreign that did not belong here.  It was something dangerous and he paused in mid stride as he contemplated what might lie ahead.  He turned in his tracks and circled to the west, continuing more by instinct than actually knowing where the danger might lay but he was able to avoid it and he gained the bluffs.  He scampered up one near vertical surface easily until he was looking down on the area where he felt the strangeness held sway.

There was something moving down there and it was not natural to the area.  His keen eyes picked out the forms as they prowled about.  They were large, probably as large as he, but their coats were white and matted where his was a dark, almost black, brown.  They sniffed and snuffled about as if searching for food and now and then he could hear their plaintive whines attesting to their hunger.  Their movements were alien and appeared almost insect like than that of any natural animal.  A whim of the gales brought to him their scent.  A stench came from the creatures of rotted flesh, decay and putrescence.  He knew what they were.  He had come upon them before.  They were the Others and they were EVIL!

The Newcomers in the log den!  His thoughts shot back to the couple near the lake that he had tried to warn before.  He had to get back to them and try to make them understand.  They had to leave the area or fall beneath the fangs of these Others!

The winds whipped against the sides of the cabin and whistled through its chinks and cracks.  The moaning and keening of the wind was a bestial, almost human voice as it nosed about the building.  The crashing of the waves on the big lake to the north was cannonade after cannonade against the shore, the booms echoed off the mountains to the south, reverberating thunder against the house.  Within the cabin the blaze on the hearth danced and cavorted, pulled by the vagaries of the drafts and gusts.  Shadows danced and cavorted on the walls.  Those within were snug and warm against the tempest that raged without. 

Yet the inhabitants did not feel overly secure.  The storm notwithstanding, beyond the walls that kept the fu\ry of the elements at bay, there was that for which the winter gale held no fear.  It prowled about seeking means of ingress to the dwelling.  The snuffling and snorting of that which hunted without came from minute openings in the log walls and the inhabitants would start and look in the direction from whence the sound came.

Mireh silently and with but a gesture shushed those within, a reassuring nod of her head let the others know she was not afraid of their external visitor.  Harlan followed her lead and went so far as to press an eye against a hole to peer into the snow smeared dusk.  Presently, as if it had suddenly become aware of his presence, another eye on the other side of the hole was looking back at him.  It held curiosity and wonder, but no malevolence.  The two stared into each other’s gaze for long breath-held moments.  Then the creature turned and left.  Harlan could see its coat was either a dark brown with whiter surface hair, or the snow had begun to pile upon the being’s shoulders.  In either case, its curiosity apparently satisfied, it left the home to wander afield.  There was no more pounding, scratching or snuffling about the walls.  The change in atmosphere was palpable and all within knew their visitor was gone.

“What does it look like?” Harlan asked his host when they had all relaxed.  “I saw white hair over brown.  And we locked eyes.  I stood staring right back at it.  It didn’t look like it wanted to harm anyone in here.  There is intelligence in those eyes!”

Terhune Pertwie replied, “It seemed covered with white hair but with darker fur beneath.”  He rocked back on his heels as he seemed puzzled by something.  “I know within my heart this is the same beast, yet tonight it did not seem hostile.  And looking past I think it never meant us any harm.  It acted out of, perhaps, a sense of curiosity.”  He looked at his wife and her expression showed she agreed with her husband.

“In either instance, the being has left and the storm seems to be abating.  We should bed down for the evening so we can be on our journey all the earlier on the morrow.” Barlow said and everyone within the cozy little cabin had to allow that this was a sound idea.

The next morning found them in bright sunlight examining the tracks left by the creature as it prowled about the house.  There were even spots where it had rested its hands as it kneeled.  The prints were very similar to man prints and Pertwie pointed that out rather nervously.

“The tracks seem to tell that the creature was here long before it let itself be discovered.  The amount of tracks around the building attests to that.  It was here long before it started snuffling about the walls.  It looks like it was seeking the opening but yet it made no move to charge it.”  Harlan was musing aloud.  To the other is seemed as if he was working through some puzzle, solving it even as he spoke.

“I am rather glad that it didn’t seek to gain entrance this time.  The pounding the walls took last time, I don’t know if they could have withstood another attack,” Pertwie replied.

“The way it hunkered down now and then, it seems as if it was anxious yet hesitant to approach us,” Barlow.

“Tracks disappear,” Mireh stated.  Where the wind swept off of the nearby beach the trail the being took to the house and took away from the house had been obliterated and none could read the signs well enough to tell from whence it came or to where it had retreated.

“Somehow, Terhune,” Harlan told the large man, “I think your troubles with the creature have come to a satisfying end.”

“I believe so too.  I don’t think it will seek to charge, should we see it again.  Perhaps I might even attempt to communicate with it.”

The travelers had already prepared to continue on their journey so they bid adieu to Terhune and Sinclair and

following a trail suggested by Pertwie they headed north to the Keweenaw Peninsula.

The sun beat warmly down and much of the snow deposited the previous night had begun to settle.  Freshly melted waters dripped down from tree tops and pockmarked the pristine blanket of white surrounding them.  They traveled at a leisurely pace.  They didn’t want to become over heated and risk the possibility of hypothermia.  Layers came off as they moved and were stored in their packs.  Brief stops were made for midmorning snack, a midday rest, and a late dinner as the sun began to rush to the horizon’s embrace.

A row of bluffs afforded a refuge for the night.  An ancient mine had been dug into the side of the stone and it was here that a snug fire was built and their camp set up.  Harlan scouted out a bit of the surrounding countryside as he gathered firewood.  Barlow and Mireh were in deep conversation when he returned with a healthy armload.

“Mireh thinks we are not alone,” Van Deutch told the adventurer as he quietly set down his load of wood.

“Oh, I know.  I think it’s our visitor from last night.  He’s been following us ever since we left the Pertwie settlement.”  This news took both the trapper and his wife aback.  Mireh had only recently been made aware if his presence.  Barlow, though a good tracker while hunting, had been unaware of it all afternoon.

“Are we in any danger, do you suppose?” the trapper asked Harlan.

“No, had we been in any, it would have made its presence known to us by now, it would have attacked back when we were in those narrows before we paused for lunch.  No, it is either curious about us or it wants to communicate something to us.  Either way I think we will simply have to wait for it to make the next move, if it wants to reveal itself.”

“I am not sure I am comfortable with this state of affairs,” Barlow grumbled and Mireh chuckled quietly to herself and shook her head.  Harlan smiled reassuringly and placed a hand on the other’s shoulder.  Still the dwarf was not mollified and moved over to help prepare supper, grumbling all the while.

They sat back to watch the golden stripes upon the land lengthen and then climb to enflame rock face and treetop as the sun slid lower and lower.  The snow that clung in tiny clumps to the tree tops was ignited by the light and turned into pastel blossoms.  The sky slowly turned pink, then turquoise, and finally darkened to indigo.  Now the fire threw dancing shadows on the rock walls and illumined the trees outside their shelter in a soft golden glow that flickered and brought into focus fantastic faces and mythic creatures traced in the shadows.  Each time the light changed one would point out to an image painted in light and shadow.  It was a pleasant pastime as they supped on dried meat and berries and prepared their couches for sleep.

“Watches?” Barlow asked Harlan.

“I know we’re watched over, even now, but the added vigilance couldn’t hurt.”

Two hour watches were set and the rotation agreed to.  Mireh insisted on being included and offered to take

the first watch.  The two men rolled into their furs and their breathing let her know they trusted her enough to sleep soundly.  The skies remained clear and the bright moon traveled it course slowly above the trees.  Harlan was awakened by her firm hand and he wrapped himself in his covers and sat at the entrance of their cozy hole. 

Smaller animals moved through the underbrush or burrowed beneath the snow, their ever present search for food the only thought in their minds: nocturnal little lives that Harlan found reassuring somehow.  Their presence gave him the peace of mind that no other alpha predator prowled the locale.  He relaxed his vigil slightly and allowed himself to drowse lightly.  Still he was able to keep track of the moons journey and knew the passage of time.

He was just rising from his seat to awaken the Mr. Van Deutch when a terrific roar tore through the stillness and woke both Barlow and Mireh.  They were at Harlan’s side in an instant.  More bestial howls cried out in the night.  It was joined by another voice and presently there came to the trio’s ears the sounds of two bodies clashing in the night.  Horrendous screams and agonizing calls echoed throughout the night and loud smack and smash of blows being dealt reverberated echoes.  While they listened to the invisible struggle continue it moved slowly away from their perch and the distance grew with every sound.  The battle was winding down also.  As ferocious and terrific as it was it was also short lived.  Whomever it was battling, whatever the creatures were, their conflict flared like a rocket and just as quickly burnt to a conclusion for eventually the sounds ceased all together.

The trio stood where they had paused to listen to the struggle.  No one had moved.  They still listened and presently their patience was rewarded.  The sound of a large form moving back into the area came from the forest before them.  It sounded like it was moving with slight difficulty and finally it stopped.  Then a grunting cough sounded and they knew it was the creature that frequented the Pertwie homestead.  It had fought off another creature as large as itself and now returned to resume its vigil over them.  Somehow this was both comforting and upsetting to the three.  It was still keeping watch over them, protecting them even, yet there were things out there as large as it was that it needed to protect them against.

“I think we don’t need to keep watch anymore,” Harlan told the other two and they reluctantly agreed.  They rolled themselves anew into their furs and laid down for an uneasy sleep. 

He had watched the three from a distance.  He knew that they knew he was there yet still he did not approach them.  He also knew of the Others that were around and he wanted to make sure the three Newcomers stayed safe.  He was old, he had seen many seasons.  These Newcomers were a curiosity to him and his kind: the Old Ones.  He wanted to become acquainted with these fragile beings but the timidity of the wild kept him apart.  The Others he knew of old.  He had come upon them before and but for the odd confrontation had left them alone.  Now, however, they threatened the Newcomers and this concerned him.  Somehow he felt the Newcomers were different.  They weren’t of nature.  They barely knew how to survive in the wilds and had to busy themselves making such odd dens and nests.  And how they filled thir days with such meaningless activity!  Their industry baffled him yet at the same time attracted him.

He hunkered down beneath an enormous pine.  There was a boulder beneath and he set his back against it and draped his hairy arms over his fur covered knees.  Normally he would have sought a more enclosed rest for the night but his desire to keep these three safe was stronger than his instinct for warmth and sleep.  He was used to the elements and the chill of the night was but a slight discomfort.  He drowsed but his keen ears picked out every little sound of the night.  The field mouse beneath the snow, the birds snuggling in the nest overhead, the creak of tree limb rubbing against tree limb, all were familiar noises and didn’t alarm him.

Then he heard the hesitant footstep some distance away.  The crunch as it penetrated the frozen rime on the snow was like thunder to his astute hearing.  There was no other sound for several long heartbeats.  He began to feel that perhaps he had been hearing things.  Then finally another foot crunched into the snow.  It was one of the Others!  It had to be, and it was trying move undiscovered, undetected.  He felt the Newcomers probably had not heard the two footsteps.  They seemed to have diminished senses and probably would not have heard the Other until it was upon them.  He turned and edged silently away from his boulder.  He dropped noiselessly to the ground and peered from beneath the boughs of the pine.

The moon shone down brightly on the snow covered landscape before him.  The gray trunks of the leafless trees rose dark in vertical lines that stretched away in all directions.  Here and there the darker, bushier outline of a conifer bewhiskered the tree line.  Another crunch!  He was able to locate where the sounds were coming from but still he saw nothing.  A long pause; another crunch, he saw it!  The while bulk slid along the dark tree choked horizon and he saw it move.  It was inching his way.  By the way the Other moved it was still unaware of his presence.  The muscles beneath his coat tensed and bulged as he readied himself to spring.  Once the Other was close enough he would attack!  Then the Other stiffened as it realized it was being observed.  It froze, but its head swiveled about as it sought to find its watcher.

Red eyes glowed eerily in the light of the moon.  They darted about searching, hunting.  The tattered and bloodied lips parted as the tongue came out.  A soft snuffling came from its mouth as it smelled and tasted of the air.  The teeth gnashed silently as if it sought to rend its unseen prey.  Another deliberated step, another crunch, the Other was closer now.  One more step and it would be within reach. 

Still the red eyes searched the night shrouded landscape but as it advanced is crouched lower and lower, anticipating an explosion into action.  Sniffing and snuffling ever so quietly it stretched out its head, nose scenting the air.  It raised a foot and brought it forward.  It paused before it set it down into the snow.  It shot its gaze straight at the tree where he crouched.  It looked piercingly for several long moments and then their gazes met.

The Old One shot from his prone position, terrific muscles bursting into movement.  He caught the Other as it rose to claw at him, forearms pinioned in his grip.  Trapped in the grip of the larger body the Other’s head shot forward and its mouth snapped and chomped as it sought to reach the tender neck of the Old One.  The larger, darker form twisted and the smaller, white being was lifted from its feet.  The Old One shook the Other like a rag doll and it roared in frustration as it was jostled about.  It reached up with its feet and sought to disembowel the taller opponent.  The Old One threw it away with a thunderous crash into a large tree trunk.  It was up in an instant and closed anew with the Old One.  It roared its defiance as it once again sought to slash and rend its opponent.  They both charged and met with a resounding crash.

Talons and teeth sough to rend flesh as the Other squirmed with manic might, seeking to avoid another steel grip.  The Old One feinted to one side, throwing the Other off balance, then the Old One belted it on the back of the head driving its face into the frozen snow.

The Other flipped as it landed and was back up and menacing the Old One so quick it caught the Old One off guard.  A scream of rage and it closed again, claws swiping at the abdomen of its opponent.  The larger one twisted just in time and the Other only scored a shallow flesh wound.  The Old One chopped down and forced the Other to its knees again.  Another chop at the back of the head and the evil creature was once again face down in the snow.

The Other had been approaching the New Comers from an odd angle and the Old One realized it had not discovered where they had been.  With his superior strength he tossed and threw the Other about, slowly leading it away from the trio’s campsite.  The Other attacked again and again.  It’s state of near starvation made it hunger for which ever was in front of it.  It didn’t matter it if was the New Comers that it had been directed to hunt, or if it was this Old One that sought to keep it from its prey.  It was ravenous and would feast on whatever it could subdue. 

The horrible mouth of lips torn and cracked was fetid and smelled of decay.  The fangs, though, were sharp and sought to close with the Old One’s flesh.  It snapped and bit but the superior strength of the larger creature kept the ravenous maw from closing with it.  It struggled with insane strength but it was outmatched.  The Other’s muzzle was effectively kept from tearing flesh.

But after the battle stretched on it knew it was at a disadvantage due to size but it screamed and roared as it fought all the same.  The Old One began to grow concerned as it considered his antagonist might be calling for reinforcements.  He doubled his efforts to subdue this evil creature and with every blow he sought to drive it to its knees in submission.  This was beginning to tell on the Other.  It fought with less and less strength until finally its energies were being spent in efforts of escape. 

Once the Old One realized this he allowed the Other the opportunity to slip away.  As it gained more it turned its head back and screamed its frustrated defiance.  Then it increased its distance and loped off into the night leaving the Old One to lick his wounds and return to his vigilant seat beneath the tree.  There were scraps and abrasions along its forearms and a shallow slice across his stomach dripped blood but wasn’t a serious injury.  These were no worse than anything it had encountered before and he felt confident he would heal.  He had dealt with real pain before and these wounds were diminished by past experiences.  He settled against the rock, draping his arms over his knees once again.  Presently the night sounds of the surrounding forest returned and remained.  The Old One knew there were no Others about so he allowed himself to sleep, confident his hearing would alert him to the presence of any more that might happen by.

Weekly Story/Chapter

None this week, broke my back shovelling out from the December 11, 2010, snow storm!

Who's scruffy looking?!

A little late kuz comcast was down...Dec's 2 sentence story.

The Upper Peninsula of Michigan

Near virginal in its wilderness areas and shockingly beautiful in its lake shore vistas the Upper Peninsula of Michigan has defied almost all attempts of man’s encroachment and the subsequent diminishing of its natural graces by progress.

Now the government searches its pristine landscapes: painted rocks, autumn splashed mountains, blossom bedecked wetlands and glossy emerald mantle of thick pine forests for radium!

Swamp Men

Roy Beaumont wuz sitting in the back of the bar.  His undead hand had a grasp on a mug fulla ice water.  He looked like he wuz waiting for us to give him a listen.  Finn kept looking over at him.  Roy wuz a zombie but not like the mayor’s bully boys or the mobs enforcers.  He wuz one that come back on his own.  It wuzn’t like he had unfinished business.  He took care of alla that and that’s another story for another time.  No, it wuz more like he had nowhere else to go and just liked hanging with us mugs so he just stuck around.

Finally Finn glanced at him one last time and motioned him over.  “C’mon, Roy.  You can sit with us.  We don’t find you revolting.”  This wuz as much a compliment Finn could come up with as any other.  Roy rose stiffly to his feet and shuffling slowly made his way to our table.  I moved over and slid another chair up.  He actually creaked when he sat himself down but I looked at him friendly like.

“What’s the good word,” I asked him.  He looked slowly at me with his dead eyes.

“There’s word that Swamp Men have been seen down past the Blimp Tower deep in the swamps.  Something gots them stirred up.”  His voice always gave me a slight thrill.  It sounded so, well, so spectral, all breathy and ghostly like.  “Folks’re afraid they might be up to something.”

“Really, Swamp Men?  Seen this late in the year?” Scurv Larson asked.  He wuz sitting at the end of the bar and most o’ us had been ignoring him.  He wuz getting pretty drunk.  Vlad wuz looking like he wuz getting ready to chuck the guy out on his backside.  “They don’t usually stick around this late in the season.”  Scurv looked like the news sobered him up a bit.  “Where’d you hear this?”

“Sung Lim told me,” Beaumont answered.

“You can trust ol’ Sung Lim!” Scurv answered and he wuz sincere.  Vlad relaxed his hand on the head knocker behind the bar.  Scurv rose from his stool and walked over to the table.  Tally scooted his chair aside and Scurv pulled another over, turning it around so he could rest his arms on the back.  He knew there wuzn’t much room left on the boards.

“Roy, you get around for someone stiff,” he said.  “I mean, you see a lot of the town the rest of us don’t since we gotsta work.”  Larson wuz trying to be polite and it wuzn’t usually part of his nature.  “What’s the skinny behind the Swamp Men?”  I realized he wuzn’t drunk, it wuz his Scandinavian accent made him sound that way.

“I only know what I’ve heard.” Beaumont might’ve not been a bright man when he wuz still living but now his memory wuz astounding.  Like he had one of the phonographic memories or something.  “Most people’s worried there might be another uprising like in 1910.”

“We don’t need anudder one o’ those!” Finn blurted out.

I wuzn’t sure it wuz gonna be another uprising.  I knew the areas of the swamps from when I hunted them as a boy.  They usually breed a peaceful easy feeling.  Once the Swamp Men relocated there they wuz almost friendly like.  They didn’t mind me hunting there once they settled in but I stopped cuz I felt like I wuz trespassing.  Hearing talk like this I decided I should get in there again and see if I could find those I wuz friends with. 

As we sat their digesting these thoughts sirens started screaming by.  They went down the street a short distance and then stopped.  There wuz at least seven paddy wagons went by and people began running either toward or away from them.  We could see the hubbub through the front window of Vlad’s place. We wuzn’t gonna be left out so we charged into the street and followed the sound of the sirens. 

By now most people wuz running away from whatever wuz ahead.  We rounded the corner to find the cop cars had surrounded a small mob of people.  We pushed through the little crowd to the front.  The cops wuz threatening five terrified Swamp People.  They looked like them gorillas they got in Africa, only made outta moss and swamp mud.  Someone what’s gots smarts once told me they wuz elementals or something like that.  They cowered in the center of the intersection, the larger ones protecting the smaller ones.  Innocent eyes stared out scared and paralyzed.  The large one in front threw his arm up in defense and this prompted the cops to open fire.  The bullets passed through the swampy flesh but musta hurt like Hell cuz the Swamp Man flinched and roared to the skies.

This made the cops stop firing.  I pushed my way forward and yanked a Thompson from the nearest cop.

“Leave ‘em alone!” I shouted.  “They’re just scared!”

I acted without thinking and soon realized I wuz surrounded by the cops just like the Swamp People wuz.  My friends had my back though.  They waded into the situation with broken bottle and chair leg, lead pipe and two by four.  They put up a wall between me and the cops and between the cops and the Swamp People.

“What the F… Murph!” Tally yelled.  “What do you think yer doing?”  He had shifted to wolf form and his spread arms covered five policemen.  “Think next time before you jump in!”  He wuz more scared for me than angry at me.  I wuz touched.

I turned and slowly walked toward the Swamp People.  The one that wuz shot looked at the machine gun in my hand and then at me.  The gesture wuz quick but spoke a lot.  I dropped the gun behind me and this made the little crowd relax.  I held my hands up towards them, palms showing.  “It’s okay, buddy.  It’s okay, little ones,” I soothed to the Swamp Man and the smaller ones behind him.  “It’s okaaaayyyy.” I cooed.  They relaxed their pose and stood straighter.

Shit, he wuz five heads taller than me and I’m no slouch.  What did I get myself into?  I had to agree with Tally right now.  I better think next time.  The Swamp Man gestured toward the south in some abstract idea but I didn’t know what it meant.  It spoke to me in its burbling, swampy voice but I didn’t understand the lingo.  Roy Beaumont had pushed through the crowd and showed up at my elbow.  He placed a dead hand on my forearm.

“He says that they wuz lost and were just looking for home,” Roy told me.  I wuz shocked.  None of us knew Roy could speak Swamp.  By now a mob wuz gathering, since the gun fire had stopped.  Muttering wuz going on, some for the cops, most of it wuz against them.  There wuz more gargling speech and Roy turned to me.  “He says they’ll leave if these gun-toting bullies will let them pass.”

Everyone heard Beaumont’s translation and they all turned and looked at the cops.  Most of the eyes were glaring and didn’t look none too friendly.   Another bit of swampy gargling, “He wuz taking his family away from the trouble,” Roy turned his lifeless eyes to me and they wuz more full of emotion than many folk I know supposed to be alive. 

I looked behind me at the cops but wuz surprised to see the Scarecrow moving through the crowd.  People were stepping aside to let him pass and an avenue stayed open behind him.  He inspired some fear even in those innocent.  The Swamp People didn’t seem to be afraid though.  He approached them, ghastly smile sewn onto his canvas face.  No expression showed in his painted eyes, yet his posture wuz one of sympathy. 

Beaumont translated what happened next:

A burble from the Scarecrow, “Will you follow me out of the city?”

“We wanted to move north.”

“North is into the city.  These people fear you.  They will hurt you out of that fear.”

“Where would you take us?”

“To the swamps east of the river.  Near Blood Tower.”

“We fear Blood Tower! Bad, bad place!”

The Scarecrow paused.  His shoulders slumped in thought.  Then his back straightened and he said, “There are swamps far north of the city.  Would they be okay?  You would be far from the lake though.”

“This is fine.  The lake scares us now.  The Deep Ones are waking up.”

“North then, through the sewers,” the Scarecrow finished.  He turned and looked at me.  He placed a hand on my shoulder and nodded once.  It wuz a Timmy Colt gesture that made my throat catch.  It wuz as if Timmy said, “Good job, Murphy McGuiness.  Good job!”

Then he turned to Beaumont and did the same thing.  First time I ever saw the dead Beaumont smile.  He nodded back in return then the Scarecrow moved to the closest manhole cover, removed it, and dropped down below the streets.  The Swamp People followed and soon the intersection wuz empty.  I turned from watching them to see the police had already got back into their sedans and were waiting for the crowd to thin so they could drive away.

Finn came up to me and gave me a smack to the shoulder.  “Way to go, Murph!  We showed ‘em good, didn’t we?”

“Fraid Murph might be a target now.” Scurv Larson said quietly.

“How you figger?” Finn didn’t like Scurv much.

“He led a gang against the police and they lost the staring match.  Might take it against you, Murph, you and the boys.”  He wuzn’t being negative.  He wuz actually concerned about me and the gang from Vlad’s.  He knew he wuzn’t really part of the “boys” but didn’t mean he didn’t like us.  “They come at you, I got your back,” he added, “any of you!  Don’t much care for these brass button posers!”

Finn wrapped an arm around Larson’s shoulders and turned him back towards Vlad’s.  “You know, I always thought you wuz a bit of a knob, Scurv.  Turns out you’re all right.  Lemme buy you a round.”

“Skirrbet Skaarsgard Larson,” Scurv said as if introducing himself for the first time.  He took Finn’s hand and shook it firmly.  “Nice to meet you.  You can call me Scurv.”

This took Finn by surprise but then they both broke into huge laughs which inspired the rest of us.  We were all chuckling good by the time we got back to the tavern.

News made it to the paper about how we helped the Swamp People.  Made front page, it did.  The mayor looked down on our interference but did have to admit since there wuzn’t any bloodshed it turned out all right.  The final paragraph mentioned what Beaumont translated about the Deep Ones but no one seemed too concerned about what he said: “This is fine.  The lake scares us now.  The Deep Ones are waking up.”

Dunphy O’Toole and Scurv Larson were holding court at Guiseppe Grimaldi’s restaurant.  The place wuz empty.  It wuz late.  Vlad had even closed the tavern so it wuz probably three or four in the morning.  Dunphy and Scurv had taken it upon themselves to do some research on the Deep Ones and wuz discussing what they learned.  Guiseppe had thrown out a big spread for us.  Pasta of all kinds decorated serving bowls and trays, sauces that’d make your grandma jealous stood nearby.  Wine bottles were stacked on the tables as wuz other kinds of liquors that the prohibition boys would’ve love to get their hands on.

Scurv went first cuz his information wuz shorter.  He had found something buried in a newspaper article about the Deep Ones Uprising out east.  It was a quote from a longer piece that was printed by Misty Harbor’s Chronicle.

“This is all I wuz able to dig up.  It’s a brief description by someone named Carter:

“I think their predominant color wuz a greyish-green, though they had white bellies. They were mostly shiny and slippery, but the ridges of their backs were scaly. Their forms vaguely suggested the anthropoid, while their heads were the heads of fish, with prodigious bulging eyes that never closed. At the sides of their necks were palpitating gills, and their long paws were webbed. They hopped irregularly, sometimes on two legs and sometimes on four. I wuz somehow glad that they had no more than four limbs. Their croaking, baying voices, clearly used for articulate speech, held all the dark shades of expression which their staring faces lacked ... They were the blasphemous fish-frogs of the nameless design - living and horrible.”

“Our Chronicle didn’t go much further than that.  Said they wuz an uprising that the U. S. Navy and Army boys took care of.”  He held out the page he was holding for others to look at.  It was a hand written copy of the news paper article.

“Well, Spiney sure ain’t no Deep One then,” Finn said.  “He’s more blue than green and ain’t no grey to him.  Heck, the bright orange stripes on his cheeks is downright pretty at times.  And he walks normal, no hopping.”  No one commented.  Ain’t none of us ever wuz afeared of ol’ Spiney.  Tally nodded in agreement but his expression said he wuz embarrassed for the half Fin, half Mick.  I think McNiel was feeling his cups.  There was an uncomfortable silence so Dunphy cleared his throat and stood up.

“I got a little more than that,” Dunphy said almost apologetically.  “Bernadette Ross here,” he nodded at the little lady beside him, “works down in the Chronicle’s Stacks.  She wuz able to find their copy of the Miskatonic Herald where they got they quote.  She’s gonna read it to us.”

She wuz a little nervous but the more she read the stronger her voice got.

“It wuz then that the most horrible impression of all wuz borne in upon me - the impression which destroyed my last vestige of self-control and sent me running frantically southward past the yawning black doorways and fishily staring windows of that deserted nightmare street. For at a closer glance I saw that the moonlit waters between the reef and the shore were far from empty. They were alive with a teeming horde of shapes swimming inward toward the town; and even at my vast distance and in my single moment of perception I could tell that the bobbing heads and flailing arms were alien and aberrant in a way scarcely to be expressed or consciously formulated. ..” 

“It goes on for quite a while like that,” she apologized.  “I’ll skip ahead a bit.”

“I am not even yet willing to say whether what followed wuz a hideous actuality or only a nightmare hallucination. The later action of the government, after my frantic appeals, would tend to confirm it as a monstrous truth; but could not an hallucination have been repeated under the quasi-hypnotic spell of that ancient, haunted, and shadowed town? Such places have strange properties, and the legacy of insane legend might well have acted on more than one human imagination amidst those dead, stench-cursed streets and huddles of rotting roofs and crumbling steeples. Is it not possible that the germ of an actual contagious madness lurks in the depths of that shadow over Innsmouth? Who can be sure of reality after hearing things like the tale of old Zadok Allen? The government men never found poor Zadok, and have no conjectures to make as to what became of him. Where does madness leave off and reality begin? Is it possible that even my latest fear is sheer delusion?

“But I must try to tell what I thought I saw that night under the mocking yellow moon - saw surging and hopping down the Rowley road in plain sight in front of me as I crouched among the wild brambles of that desolate railway cut. Of course my resolution to keep my eyes shut had failed. It wuz foredoomed to failure - for who could crouch blindly while a legion of croaking, baying entities of unknown source flopped noisomely past, scarcely more than a hundred yards away?

“I thought I wuz prepared for the worst, and I really ought to have been prepared considering what I had seen before.

“My other pursuers had been accursedly abnormal - so should I not have been ready to face a strengthening of the abnormal element; to look upon forms in which there wuz no mixture of the normal at all? I did not open my eyes until the raucous clamour came loudly from a point obviously straight ahead. Then I knew that a long section of them must be plainly in sight where the sides of the cut flattened out and the road crossed the track - and I could no longer keep myself from sampling whatever honor that leering yellow moon might have to shew.”

Bernie paused to take a drink of water.  This was a  lot of speeching.

 “And yet,” she continued reading,  “I saw them in a limitless stream - flopping, hopping, croaking, bleating - urging inhumanly through the spectral moonlight in a grotesque, malignant saraband of fantastic nightmare. And some of them had tall tiaras of that nameless whitish-gold metal ... and some were strangely robed ... and one, who led the way, wuz clad in a ghoulishly humped black coat and striped trousers, and had a man's felt hat perched on the shapeless thing that answered for a head.

“I think their predominant colour wuz a greyish-green, though they had white bellies.” She looked up.  “This part repeats what Scurv already read.  I’ll skip ahead again.”

“But for all of their monstrousness they were not unfamiliar to me. I knew too well what they must be - for wuz not the memory of the evil tiara at Newburyport still fresh? They were the blasphemous fish-frogs of the nameless design - living and horrible - and as I saw them I knew also of what that humped, tiaraed priest in the black church basement had fearsomely reminded me. Their number wuz past guessing. It seemed to me that there were limitless swarms of them and certainly my momentary glimpse could have shewn only the least fraction. In another instant everything wuz blotted out by a merciful fit of fainting; the first I had ever had.

“Bi-line- Randolph Carter-Reporter for the Miskatonic Herald, Arkham Massachusetts.”

We sat there digesting what we just heard.  It took the whole army and navy to take care of the uprising that happened out Massachusetts way.  No wonder Spiney wuz worried.  Now I wuz worried about Spiney.  Still we wuzn’t hearing of any Deep Ones visiting the city anywhere, just the Swamp People moving outta them swamps.

Guiseppe came round with more wine for everyone.  He looked like he wuz wrestling with a real puzzle.  When he come to Vlad, Vlad asked him, “What is it, Giz?”

“Seems to me,” Mr. Grimaldi said, “That we don’t really gots anything to be worrying abouts.  These Lake Peoples, they no been visiting the city yet.  Once they do, then we starts worrying.”

“True enough,” Tally replied for everyone.  “But…”

He didn’t get to finish.  Guiseppe continued, interrupting him.  “Before they starts showing up on our streets we needs to get organized a bit, yes?  No sense going to the mayor.  He’s a not so smart he thinks he is, I’m thinking.  We get ourselves a patrol, some kinda Michigan militia what can protect our streets while those of us smart enough try and think of a way to keep these Deep Ones from having their rising ups.”

Most of us knowed we wuzn’t the smart ones so we agreed to form this shore guard and we left to let the brains discuss the other part.  The night was cold and foggy.  Mist hung heavy along the lake and the fog horn was belching out its sad low call.  Tally and Finn and Scurv and I were walking south towards the bridge.  We left Roy Beaumont behind for his amazing memory.  Dunphy stayed too cuz we wuz good at figuring things.

We were headed south to check on Vlad’s place.  He asked us to look in on it on our way home as he wuz nervous leaving it alone.  He didn’t trust any o’ them bully boys as far as he could throw them and didn’t want them to get any ideas about busting up the joint.  There wuzn’t much traffic out this time of night.  We only saw maybe two automobiles go by and then the street lamps wuz our only friends.  They wuz surrounded by a dim golden halo on account of the fog wuz so thing.  We took our time walking, things get this misty even the sidewalks become slippery.

We wuz half way across the bridge when we first heard the noise.  It was a flap, flap sound that followed us.  It didn’t sound like it wuz in any hurry either.  We’d take a few steps, it’d take a few steps.  We’d stop to listen, the slap-flapping would stop.  It wuzn’t coming from the River below us.  Is sounded like it wuz on the bridge behind us. 

“Deep Ones…?” Scurv whispered and Tally hissed him quiet.

But the thought wuz out there and we couldn’t not think of them anymore.  Slap-flap!  Slap-flap! The steps wuz getting closer.  I could dimly make out the end of the bridge and pointed only to have a dark shape step out into the lamp light and bar our way.  It was big and ape looking.  I thought of Swamp Men first but the large shadow wuz joined by a smaller one.  This one wore a slouch hat and scarf.  The Scarecrow!  I just knew it. 

We all but hurried down the slope of the bridge to meet up with him.  Next to him was a broad, huge shape with a familiar face.  It had the thick fleshy lips and large staring eyes made him kinda spooky looking but let us know it was related to Spiney.  The Scarecrow said nothing but held up a gloved palm.  As we waited the thing following us came into the light and showed it was also kin folk to Spiney.  He spoke.

“We are looking for the ones called Finn, Murphy, and Tally,” it said in Spiney’s familiar breathy, throaty voice.

“That’s us!” Tally answered.  “Looking fer a rumble?”

“Tal, that’s not a Deep One,” Scurv informed him.

“Quite,” the tall one said.  “We are from the Court of Spindriculeas.  He has been captured by the Deep Ones.  You may know our Sovereign as Spiney.  He has sent us to ask for your help in getting him free.”

What!  Spiney was royalty?!  Spiney was CAPTURED?!!

To be continued.

Xiombienoir

The roar of the 45 thundered and the whine of the ricocheting slug screamed through the air.  Robert Burroughs had slid behind the bulk of the sedan just as his assailant had fired the round.  He had been lucky, very lucky.  That bullet might have had his name on it.  Cordite tinged the still air with its acrid influence. 

Burroughs lowered himself down beside the auto, first to his knees, then palms flat he laid beside the vehicle.  He peered beneath the running board,  his face close to the street.  Two sets of feet shuffled behind a coup across the way.  Taking a chance Burroughs pointed the barrel of his pistol at the street just in front of the feet and fired.  The shattered cobblestone and fragmented bullet bounced up and scored a hit on the left pair of shoes.  They danced and bounced; pain evident by the gyrations. 

“Shit!” a pinched, nasal voice cried out.  “I’ve been hit!  Shit! Right in my Dingus!”

“Quiet, dummass!” a deep baritone commanded.  “Christ!  Grab your dick and stop the bleeding!”

“But it hurts!  Damn, it hurts!” the nasally voice ended in a prolonged whining wail and the feed danced about uncontrollably.

“Fuck!” the baritone ejaculated and then a crunch followed.  As Burroughs watched from his vantage point beneath the sedan a small form crumpled and dropped to the street. He recognized the face.   The left set of feet had been knocked senseless by his companion.  It was Steve “Wormy” Tayback; small time hood always looking to rise in an organization that never noticed him.  If Wormy was here then the other must be Lance Sharpton.

These two had been dogging Burroughs for two months now.  He had been able to avoid them until tonight.  Word had it that they wanted to question him about one of his past cases but apparently tonight they decided that a silent Robert Burroughs was a better choice.  He had been three doors away from his office when the first shot zinged above head.  One fired prematurely warning him of their presence and intentions.  He had just the time to dive behind the dark sedan before they opened fire. 

He rose to a crouching squat and inched his eyes around the front of the automobile using the grill and headlights as cover. 

Sharpton was at the opposite end of the coup looking for a clear shot.  He didn’t see Burroughs.  The private dick dropped to the street again and peered beneath the car.  A quick look at Tayback showed a huge cleft in his skull where his head had been caved in, brain leaking out like an obscene soufflé.  Blood ran over his face looking like crimson tears.  It pooled beneath his head, his eyes stared unseeing at all prospects that had now fled and his tongue lolled out of a breathless mouth.  Poor little Wormy had angered the massive Lance one time too many.

Sharpton’s size sixteens stood at the hood of his sedan. Burroughs contemplated for a few seconds of attempting to dart across the street to come up behind the big thug but he decided to stay put and wait for the larger man to make a move.  Instead he covered the front of the opposite car with his barrel.  A steady aim might drop Sharpton without killing him before he could try anything.  Burroughs could hear the crunch of gravel beneath the other’s feet.  Then there was a loud grunt and a commotion started up across the way.  It was the unmistakable sound of two men scuffling.  The PI shifted in his crouch, surprised by this turn.  Then Sharpton started screaming.

Past plans of dropping the thug fled from his mind.  Sharpton sounded terrified, screaming in unrestrained panic and then in mortal agony.  Robert stood from behind his vehicle but could not see what occurred across the way.  He ran out to see if he could help save the thug from whatever was accosting him but he stopped when he heard a loud crunch and the death groan of the big guy. 

Fearful of what he might find he rounded the coup.  He stopped short.  The dead Tayback stood over the still form of Sharpton.  Sharpton was now dead too.  Burroughs had just seen the little guy drop the big guy letting him fall from his grip to the street below.  The way Tayback’s head lolled to one side it was quite evident he was still quite dead.  Sharpton’s upper torso had been twisted around completely.  Lying on his stomach he was looking out over his rear.  His spine was completely crunched.  Even alive Wormy never had the strength to accomplish such a feat.

Tayback looked at Burroughs blankly.  There was no intelligence in his gaze; no life shown within the eyes.  The blood and brains had begun to clot on his face and it added to the surreal horror of the spectacle.  The small form turned slightly, the cock of its head taking on the appearance of one listening even though its lifeless expression had not changed.  It turned completely away from the private investigator and headed off down a nearby alley.

Burroughs hesitated as Wormy disappeared around a corner then gun still in hand he broke into a jog.  He had to follow the little guy and try to apprehend him.  If the Don controlling this area of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan thought that Robert had anything to do with the death of two of his henchmen he might be “invited” in for a chat.  From what Robert had heard about these chats not too many men survived them.  No, he needed to find Wormy.  He caught sight of his prey rounding a corner and he sped up to try and catch him.  As he turned the corner he was in time to see just the heel of Tayback’s shoe.  He tried speeding up but the cool air and the poor shoes he was wearing were telling on him, let alone the number of cigarettes he burned in a day.

He followed the sound of the retreating little man a bit further and then realized he was lost.  These alleys were an older part of Escanaba and he had never seen them before.  He could tell that these were some of the oldest buildings in the little city.  The hell with pursuing Wormy!  He had to stop and get his bearings.  The twists and turns he made brought him deeper and deeper into older and older alleys between buildings with architecture and materials that would be ancient by modern standards.  He tried to retrace his steps but each corner looked like the one before and he had to admit he was lost.

Before fear could set in he heard the screaming siren of cop cars approach.  The crunch of tires told him the cars were close.  Then the cars came to a stop.  Cops arrived at the scene of the gruesome murder.  There followed the normal banter and interplay of conversation as beat cops and detectives mused over the scene. 

“Johnson!  There’s some casings over here next to Sharpton’s body.  And his gun’s been fired.”

“Bag ‘em both!” Johnson barked back.  “And Westmore, don’t mix them up with yours again.”

“Right, detective,” Westmore answered sheepishly.

Shit, Johnson! Burroughs mused.  Thick-headed, broken-nosed moron.  If anyone could foul up a case it would be Martin Johnson!  At least Westmore was there.  Young and slightly inept, at least he was level headed.  But then being saddled with Johnson he probably stood little chance of improving.  Still, using the sounds of conversation Burroughs followed them as they guided him out of his maze.

“Sergeant Reece!  Keep those people back.  Get these hangers-on away from the scene.” Johnson barked further.  “C’mon men, crowd control!  Nothing to see here folks, go home!  Get the hell outta here before I arrest you!”

The cooler headed sergeant Reece called into the night, soothing and coaxing, “Okay, people.  Let us do our jobs so we can get out of your way.”

Burroughs returned his pistol to his shoulder holster.  He was much closer to the street now and a rookie flat foot stopped him in the alley. 

“Fleeing the scene were we?  Hands up!”  The PI could do no less.  He had to admit it did seem suspicious for him to return to the scene out of a half-forgotten alley.

“Detective Johnson, this man was sneaking about back here,” the rookie called as he marched him into the street.

“If it isn’t my old friend, Robert Burroughs!” Johnson sneered.  He grabbed the private detective by the collar and throwing him off balance planted him face first over the hood of a police sedan.  A knee was thrust into the small of his back as first one arm was wrenched behind his back and then the other, handcuffing him neatly.  Johnson left him leaning over the hood of the car and moved to one side.  The policeman shoved his face close to Burroughs’, whiskey breath strong and unpleasant, his red rimmed eyes looking piggish in the street lamps.

 “Leaving the scene of the crime, Burroughs?”  He belched and the warm breeze of garlic and alcohol washed over the cuffed man’s face.  “What’d you have against Sharpton?  Muscling in on your racket was he?  Why’d you kill him, Private Dick?!” the emphasis placed on the last word was meant as an insult.

“I got nothing to say to you, Johnson.  Why don’t you wait for the big boys to show up and go play somewhere else?  You’re out of you league here, Marty.  There’s gotta be some orphans nearby for you to roust.”

“You!” Johnson blurted and an explosion of glitter and sparks told Burroughs he had just taken a blow to the head.  He tasted copper in the back of his mouth and his knees wanted to buckle.  A warm, wet sensation over his forehead, followed by blood dripping onto the car let him know the cop had clocked him a good one.  He was dizzy and muddle-headed.  He had a pretty thick head so he was pretty sure he wouldn’t suffer a concussion.  But it sure hurt like Hell!

He stiffened his spine to firm up his stance and shook his head.  The dizzy spell was already abating.  He rolled to one shoulder and looked Johnson in the eye.

“Such a brave little soldier: able to beat up on those ever so ready to defend themselves!”

The outraged cop drew back a fist full of brass knuckles for another clout.

“JOHNSON!”  The shout froze him in place-fist reared back, swiveled at the hips to deliver a telling blow.  The head snapped around to see who would dare shout at him, disbelief on his face.  Then his expression became one of shock and the color left his cheeks.

“Johnson!” this time the command was less severe.

“But, commissioner!” the detective countered.

“Don’t make me put you on report again, lieutenant!  It’d be your LAST strike,” the voice was cold steel, inflexible, immutable. “And get rid of the cuffs.”

The portly detective did as he was bid but there was much muttering under his breath.  Burroughs rose from where he was perched and rubbed at his wrists.  It wasn’t the first time he had worn cuffs and knew the irritation would be only momentary.  He looked up at the Commissioner and recognized the unofficial apology that lay behind the crooked smile.  He was as broad and trim as the private eye but the silver at his temples and in his mustache showed the man’s age.

“What you got, Robert?” he asked.

“Commissioner McCammon, I was almost back to my office when Sharpton and Tayback ambushed me.”

“Bob, drop the title.”

“Yes, Michael.”

“Tayback’s not here!” Johnson contradicted.

McCammon took no notice of his detective.

“Wormy took a blow to the head and dropped.  You can see his blood there,” Burroughs pointed at the dark spot.  “He pissed off Sharpton one time too many.  Sharpton brained him with his pistol butt.  Dropped him stone cold dead.”

As the commissioner of police digested this Martin came back and got in the PI’s face again.

“Then where’s the body?”

“Johnson, I won’t tell you again…” Michael McCammon cautioned in a soft yet steel hard tone.  “Bob, where’d Wormy go?”

“That’s the kicker, Mike!  He got up from where Big Lance dropped him dead as a stone.  Got up and twisted Lance in half!”  The private eye was actually shaken.  Not much got to him much since the Big War but this rocked his belief system.  “Then he walked off down that alley.”

Commissioner McCammon just nodded as if he had expected to hear something of this sort.  He pursed his lips and hummed to himself as he looked first at the blood on the pavement, the twisted form of the large thug, then turned on his heels slowly to take in the alley entrance.

“Knowing you, you gave chase didn’t you?”

Robert Burroughs nodded.  “Followed him around so many corners I got lost.  Your boys in blue guided me back with their prattle after they arrived.  Mike, there are buildings back in that maze that are still standing from before the Civil War.  I’ve never seen this side of Escanaba before.”

The commissioner nodded and began humming through his lips again.  He twisted his head in a gesture that indicated he wanted the civilian sleuth to walk with him.  They turned and made their way down the street in the direction of Burroughs’ office.  Once within they both moved to the bar and the sparse collection of bottles that rested on its surface.  The cop reached for the bottle of scotch and the detective the bottle of whiskey.  Two shots poured and downed and the commissioner turned to his friend.

“Bob, we’ve had two other incidents just like these one a few nights ago, one again last night.  Both in different parts of the city but there’s something that’s very similar to them.  Can’t put my finger on it just yet but there’s a connection there somehow.”

Robert shared another couple shots with his friend.  Both looked at the diminishing levels on the bottles in abstract thought before Burroughs replied.  “I could look into the locales for you if you want; on the side, unofficial.  I’m between cases right now.”

“If you’d like.  Can’t pay you but, Bob, it would keep you on my good side,” the policeman teased.  Robert smiled, poured the last shot out of his bottle and tossed it back.

“Gonna hafta find some more hooch.  Any connections?” he looked askance at his friend. 

“I can ask around.”

“Who would think a small little city like Escanaba would have this kind of trouble?!”

“Prohibition.  Oh, you mean Wormy!  When it comes to the occult and black magic, Bob, no city is safe I’m afraid.”

Michael McCammon finished the contents of his bottle and shrugged to the thickening evening.  Robert Burroughs smiled sheepishly.  There was nothing else to discuss so he showed his friend to the door and the Commissioner pushed the fedora he was wearing to the back of his head.

“Got a bad feeling about this one.  You be careful, Bob,” and then he was out in the night.  Bob returned to his bar and cracked the seal on a bottle of vodka.  In lieu of his favorite Irish libation he could be coerced into partaking of the Russian elixir.

The strident crash of his doorbell shattered sleep like an alarm claxon and sent his head spinning into the self induced hell of a hangover.  He rolled and ended up on his knees next to his couch.  He didn’t even make it to bed last night.  The binge he allowed himself to rationalize was to ward off the effects of what he had seen earlier in the evening.  Normally in his world the walking dead didn’t go walking.  They had a way of lying there until they were interred into the ground, on their way to the afterlife.  The alcohol didn’t help his understanding of the situation with any miraculous insight.  His fright at seeing the lifeless corpse of Steve Tayback shuffling through the back alleys of the old town was only partially eclipsed by the thought of Vicenza Stephanacci wanting an audience with the private detective to see what hand he had in the deaths of Wormy and Big Lance.  This was a prospect that was less appealing than running into Wormy again.

But all that dissolved into one glass of vodka too many and now the shrill siren of his door bell clamored for attention.  He had meant to have that thing disconnected twelve client interrupted hangovers ago.  This time for sure!

He attained his feet and smoothed back his hair.  Rumpled shirt and wrinkled trousers would have to suffice.  In his stocking feet he moved to the door and peered through the peep hole.  A vision of loveliness stood waiting patiently on the other side.  She was seventeen different kinds of classy all wrapped up just barely in an evening gown that had no place being this side of midnight.  In the instant he looked he was all but over come with alabaster shoulders and wave after wave of auburn tresses that yearned to be caressed.  The light shawl thrown over her shoulders hid nothing of the charms beneath.  There were curves and contours all put just where he didn’t need to see them right now.  She stood as if this was all that had been readily available as far as apparel went.  It did not look like this was the end of a long evening for her but this was all she had to approach her day. He did the only thing he could do at a time like this.  He opened the door.

“Mr. Burroughs?”   Her voice matched perfectly her appearance; a heavenly chorus of refined culture that rolled the “R’s” just ever so slightly with an exotic trace of an accent.  There was a touch of humor in her eyes as she sized up the disheveled private investigator.

“Who would like to know?” he responded, a throat full of gravel and dessert sand.

Her back stiffened and the look of amusement fled from her gaze.  She tilted her head slightly as if in bowing to him.  “I am Anastasia Magilluppe!” she announced as if it should mean something to him.  It didn’t.

“And?”

“So sorry, Mr. Burroughs.  I thought you might have heard of me,” she replied.  “My country has recently received a lot of interest in international newspaper coverage.”  Her lower lip pouted forward and quivered slightly.  Long lashes batted above eyes that now looked on the verge of tears.

“Miss Magilluppe, how may I help?” Burroughs asked as he further smoothed the hair on his pate and straightened his shirt.  “Chair?” he indicated one near his desk.

She moved with fluid grace, a sashay to her swivel and his eyes watched appreciatively every sway.  She lowered herself to the seat, knees together, legs slightly to one side beneath her.  Every motion indicated she was raised a refined lady.

“An artifact has been stolen from my family estate in Europe and I have followed it here.  It is an heirloom of no import to anyone but my family.”

“Important enough for you to come all the way to this Podunk little town in the U. P. to retrieve it?”

“I’m sorry, the U. P?”

“Upper Peninsula.  Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Not much of international intrigue happens up here.  Most we got is organized crime looking to control all the illegal hooch in the country.”  Robert moved around his desk and sat in his chair.  He offered the cultured dame a cigarette but she declined with a short shake of her head.

“I am sorry I tried to deceive you,” she said after a long pause.  With a tiny little cough she continued.  “This artifact could legitimize my claim to the throne of my country.  I am an exiled princess, Mr. Burroughs.”

“No kidding, huh?  How about that?”  His wonder seemed insincere as something slid into place.  “Monrovia without a ruler, huh?  So who has this artifact?”

“I believe it is in the hands of a rather unscrupulous individual.  A Mr. Gerome Applegate.”

“That’s it, nice meeting you, lady!” the detective said shortly and rose from his seat.  He moved over to the door as if to hold it for the lady.

“I’m sorry?” she asked, confused.

“I bet you are,” he replied cryptically.  “Mr. Gerome Applegate is one of the Big Bosses hereabouts in organized crime.  I am not gonna tangle with any of that lot!  My services may be up for the best price but my skin isn’t.  You’re gonna hafta find some other tool to do your dirty work.”  His hand turned the knob and slowly began to open the door.

Anastasia Magilluppe remained where she was seated.  Her large eyes blinked at him, and then tears dotted the long lashes.  Her mouth quivered and a teardrop slide gracefully down one alabaster cheek.  Robert Burroughs felt like a heel as he stood watching her composure first crumple and then shatter.  She dropped her head to her hands and sobbed openly.

He slid the door closed and then crossed back over to his desk.  He pulled open a drawer and withdrew a clean cotton handkerchief.  He held it out to the lady and waited patiently for her to see it.  She sobbed heartfelt sobs that wracked her form and shook her shoulders.  Even weeping she was a gorgeous creature.  He cleared his throat and she glanced up to see the proffered linen.  A graceful hand reached out and took it and then hid her face in it.

She was sobbing silently now, large gasps filling her lungs and forcing the material of the evening gown tighter against her curvaceous form.  He resisted the temptation to pat a shoulder and be consoling.  Good sense warned him of familiar actions like this all the time.  Most times he turned a deaf ear but something tugged at his logic and he refrained from falling into the trap.  Or so he told himself.

In broken sentences she poured out her soul.  “Mr. Burroughs.  This artifact.  It’s all I have left of my family.  They were all destroyed.  Bad men.  They want to ruin my country.  The artifact.  It proves my claim,” the sobs were less frequent now and her breathing was resuming a normal pace.  “If I could reclaim my throne the reward for your services would be considerable!”

This hit Burroughs right where it counted: his wallet.  He rocked back on the corner of the desk where he had been sitting.  He stared at the water stained wallpaper and the cracked paint on the ceiling.

“I can’t promise anything.  I don’t like this Gerome Applegate one bit.  I tell you what I’ll do.  I can look into the case and if it looks like Applegate might have the artifact we can call in the authorities.”   It was weak but right now it was all he was willing to do. “If your claim is legitimate then you’ll get your gewgaw back.” Yet the change over the woman was miraculous.

“Oh, Mr. Burroughs.  You are a wonder!”  She rose and held out her arms as if to enfold him within her embrace.  He stayed her advance with an upright palm.

“Hold it, sister.  I didn’t say I’d take the case.  I said I’d look into it.”

It didn’t matter to the woman.  Her face was all smiles and the tears had vanished.  She no longer looked the defeated, forlorn waif.  There was purpose to her step.  She stepped around the detective and moved to the door. 

“I’ve left my card on your desk, Mr. Burroughs.  You can reach me at that number,” and she was gone.  A hint of jasmine and ginger hung in the air, a residue of her curious and exotic perfume.  Robert Burroughs just shook his head in bemusement and retrieved her card from the desk.

“Anastasia Magilluppe: Meridian Hotel, Main and First.”  It was a card most of the finer hotels produced for their long term renting clientele.  On the back was written in exquisite scroll her apartment number and phone number.  No way to know if it was her handwriting or not.  He could tell nothing from the card.  He tossed it back on his desk and moved to his bathroom to make himself presentable to the day.

One greasy plate of sausage and eggs at the corner diner and copious amounts of coffee set him on his day.  He had washed, changed into cleaner clothes, and was now walking the few short blocks to the city’s newspaper offices.  His contact down in the daily’s morgue might be able to    help him out: Bernie Roth.  She was a mousey little brunette that if she’d let her hair down and get rid of her cat’s eye, horn-rimmed glasses she wouldn’t look half bad.  Burroughs suspected that she bore a secret crush on him and at times he felt guilty about taking advantage of that for his own personal gain but then if she had feelings her him it was up to her to pursue them, not him.

He snuck in through the side entrance.  If Murdock Murphy was editor in chief today there’d be a scene and the detective didn’t want any more trouble looking into this little affair then was necessary.  He and Murphy had some bad history and he avoided the newspaperman like the plague nowadays.  No, side entrance right next to the stairs leading down into the paper’s morgue and dead files.  He sidled through the door and listened carefully.  There was no one above or below him on the stairs so he slid through and hastened down to the basement level.  The morgue stood next to the boiler room and the heat from the furnace helped to keep the mold and mildew away from the “stacks.”

The door stood ajar slightly and a conversation issued from within.  Bernie was being stern with someone else.  Her voice had a hard edge to it and she held firm to her resolve.  The PI would have loved to be part of the scene but he didn’t know who the other person was and wanted his visits here kept low-keyed.  Instead he moved over to the furnace room and peeking quickly in moved to stand next to the inside door jam.

Heeled shoes clicked across the floor in the other room and Burroughs peeked around the corner.  It was Murphy.  He looked like he had been handed his hat.  Bernie had given him a dressing down that was probably long overdue but unexpected to the editor.  He slumped by a towering man of humbled chagrin.  His form retreated up the stairs dejected and chastened.

Robert quickly moved to the other room and announced his presence with a soft cough.  Bernie turned on her heels ready to give more to her boss but when she saw it was the private eye she caught herself and smiled at him instead.

“Bob!  How have you been?  It’s been a while since you needed free research,” the tone in her voice took away the sting of the words.

“Hey, Bernie!  How you been?” he parried.

“Did you see the ‘Weasel’ leaving?” she asked, the pride fairly gleaming from her countenance.

“I heard too.  What did he do?  What’d you say?”

“Bastard thought he was going to cut my hours.  I told him what departments rely on my work and which of his cherished reporters actually do their job and which ones rely on me making them look good.  I told him the lazy ones shouldn’t be reprimanded, though.  They are only following his example!”

Burroughs chuckled at this and it brought a giggle from the librarian.  She thought about what she had just done to her boss and the thought made her laugh even harder.  Robert was carried along in her mirth and he began laughing.  Before long the two of them were laughing uncontrollably over the described scene.  Bernadette Roth had tears streaking down her cheeks and Robert Burroughs was bent over double.  Their merriment lasted several long seconds before Robert regained his composure.  Bernie was holding her side and was fighting to catch her breath.

“What did you want, Burroughs?” she asked finally.

“Hooo!  I needed that, Bernie,” he replied.  Then getting serious he sat on her desk corner and told her of his visit earlier. 

“Monrovia, hmm?  Anastasia Magilluppe.  I just saw her name associated with the police blotter a couple weeks ago.”  Bernie became a machine as she sorted through papers and piles.  Finally she found what she had been searching for.  “Yup!  Here it is.” 

She handed it to the detective but what was written was incomprehensible to him.  “Um…” he floundered.

“You men are really helpless aren’t you?  Here!” she took it back.  “Magilluppe was connected with Edgar Howard who met an untimely end.  It was decided that there was no connection with the refugee heiress and the private detective’s demise.  He suffered a catastrophic automobile accident that had taken his life.  Miss Magilluppe had engaged his services to find a family heirloom that might restore her to the throne of Monrovia.

 “Catastrophic automobile accident?”

“Yes, the report says the damage to the sedan was almost negligible but Howard’s body was almost twisted beyond recognition.  No whereabouts to the heirloom were forthcoming.”  Bernie finished.  “Guess that’s where you come in.”

“No, this is where I step out.  I told her I’d look into it, not take the case.  Well, I’ve looked into it.  End of story.  Now let me leave you with a better puzzle.”  He told the librarian about the chase down the alley but left out how Wormy Tayback became a walking corpse.  He then added the other locations Commissioner McCammon mentioned and she was engrossed. 

“Old parts of Escanaba that have been buried by newer neighborhoods?  This will be interesting but the search is gonna take some time.”

“Pace yourself.  I’ve got nothing going on but nursing a hangover the rest of the day.”

“Can I drop by your office with the results?”

The detective pondered the implications as to where they might lead but decided it was an innocent question.  “Sure.  I’ll be there all day and night.  Got no case to work right now anyway.”

Her pleasure over the answer was more than he would have expected but he left her with it and sauntered out of the “stacks” and climbed the stairs to navigate the day.

Robert returned to his office to deal with his hangover the only way he knew how: a long nap on the couch, window shades closed.  By the time he awoke the sun had already begun to set.  He could tell by the dim light oozing from behind the blinds.  He rose stiffly and went into the apartment in the back of his office and took a long hot shower.  Clean clothes went a long way to make him feel more human again.  That and the cup of strong coffee.  He was still drying his hair when his doorbell rang again.

He peaked through the spy-hole and saw it was Bernie Roth.  She was dressed casually, flannel shirt and slacks.  She had let her hair down and had ditched her glasses and Robert was impressed in the change.  She could be a knockout if she dolled up just right.  The flannel shirt wasn’t tucked in but it did little to hide her curves.

He opened the door and was about to greet her warmly when her shirt flipped open.  It wasn’t buttoned.  Beneath she wore a dark maroon bustier with black and red piping strategically placed to accentuate her charms.  She smiled a slow, knowing smile.

“Aren’t you going to invite me it?” she asked.

To be continued.