Swim Like Hell: A Visit to Superstition Bay

by Benjamin LaMore

  “There is much that you don’t know,” Susan Danaher said softly. “Much that nobody knows, and many things that must not be known. Our world is a magical one, full of beings with remarkable power. Some of those beings are benevolent, at best happy to serve and at worst content to pass unnoticed. But some…”

  Mr. Pale sighed. “Poor Oliver. I had hopes that he would learn to control his condition.”

  “Condition?”

  “He is a wendigo.”

  I saw a spray of light behind my eyes, and I knew that the fever must be causing hallucinations. “What?”

  “A wendigo. A beast from Native American mythology. Sometimes the curse was earned when a man ate the flesh of another man, but in Oliver’s case it was part of his Salteaux heritage, passed down along bloodlines. From his very childhood he was cursed to become a cannibalistic monster. When the curse is inherited it usually strikes during early adulthood. He tried but wasn’t strong enough to control his bloodlust. For that, I am sorry.”

  Crazy. He was crazy. Either that or I was. “Get out of my room,” I groaned.

  “The fact that you were able to fight him one on one and live is remarkable. A wendigo blinded by hunger is a horrible, savage thing. Stronger than human, faster. On top of that impervious to any weapon. He should have slaughtered you outright. Instead, you fought him. And very nearly won.”

  He clasped his hands together, looking for all the world like a priest taking confession. “But the real miracle is going on inside you. You were bitten. The saliva of the wendigo is necrotic. If a person is bitten but doesn’t die, the saliva corrodes the victim’s body from the inside. By rights, you should be dead by now, but your body has fought off the magic in the saliva. Moreover, all magical charms we’ve attempted to heal you with have failed. It would seem that you possess a natural… immunity to magical energy. We shall have to explore this further at another time.”

  “Who are you?” I had to ask him.

  “We represent the Aegis, a collection of like-minded… individuals who are dedicated to keeping magical threats in check. Remy and Susan are Envoys, Aegis representatives who seek out people or things that hurt innocent people or are threatening to do so. Things like Oliver, who tried to fight their fate and lost, and things that either choose to bring harm or have no capacity for choice.”

  He rose to his full, iconic height. “The Danahers have been tracking Oliver for the last three days. Only yesterday were they able to find the area he seems to have claimed as his own. In the morning they are going to go into the woods and see to Oliver when he is at his weakest. Tomorrow we will be back to continue this conversation.” The three of them moved for the door.

  “Wait,” I called after them. They stopped.

  “See to him. You mean you’re going to kill him.”

  Mr. Pale’s head dipped in sorrow. “He’s beyond saving now. Yes, we have to kill him. To make sure he harms no one else.”

  I nodded. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Impossible,” Mr. Pale said flatly.

  “You’re hurt,” Remy agreed. “You’d hold us back.”

  The silence stretched as I took a deep, bracing breath. “I barely knew her, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Her name is Rebecca. Was Rebecca. Becky. We went to school together, but even then we didn’t really talk. I remember her, though. She was in the drama club. I wrestled. We weren’t friends, but she was nice. I wish we had been friends.”

  “Mr. DeLong…”

  “I grew up in these woods,” I said. “I know how to move through them. Besides, my legs aren’t injured. Even hurt, you’d hold me back. And you owe me. This thing, this friend of yours who you left in my back yard, killed three innocent people. People I knew. You owe me the chance to be there when he dies.”

  Remy Danaher and Pale looked at each other, a heavy look.

  “He’s got no business out there. He’s a civilian. He’s had no training, no experience. No idea what to do if things go bad.”

  “I agree,” Susan Danaher said. “He has no idea what he’s asking.”

  Mr. Pale held eye contact with both Danahers, considering, then turned his sunglasses towards me. It wasn’t that bright in here. “No,” he said after a moment. “He doesn’t.”

  He looked at me, or at least I think he did. It was hard to tell with those damned sunglasses. Then he stood tall, apparently having come to a decision. “Remy, Susan. Go get Ian some appropriate clothes. The ones he was wearing have been taken as evidence.”

  “You’re not seriously going to allow this?” Remy said angrily.

  “He’s not wrong, Remy. He has earned the right to be there when this ends.”

  “You have thirty minutes,” he said to me as he walked out the door. “I suggest that you prepare yourself. That includes prayer.”

  After a long moment of shared looks the Danahers followed him. Susan lingered wordlessly at the door for a moment, looking at me wonderingly, then she, too was gone.

  Exactly thirty minutes later they slipped quietly back into my room, walking right past the thick-bodied, bowl-cut Asian nurse who was checking my IV. The nurse never gave the pair a glance. They wore bright orange down jackets and tough looking jeans, and he had a black gym bag slung over one shoulder. After the nurse left Remy made a curt gesture with his left hand, and Susan immediately raised her hands in a calming manner.

  “Don’t worry, Ian, it’s just us,” she said.

  “I know. I saw you walk in.”

  “You saw us?” Remy sounded incredulous.

  “Of course I did.”

  They shared a surprised look. “Even indirect magic has no effect on him?” he asked.

  “Apparently. Ian, we were under a cloaking spell. Nobody should have been able to see or hear us. We’ve fooled German shepherds with this spell before.”

  “Sorry to spoil your record.” I was in no mood for banter. I was still weak, but strong enough to feel like violating doctor’s orders. Susan, who evidently had at least a modicum of medical training, painlessly removed the IV while Remy handed me clothing out of his bag. Jeans like theirs, good boots, thick socks, a heavy sweatshirt, jockey shorts.

  “I wear boxers,” I said as I got dressed.

  “Don’t be picky,” Susan chided me from the window, where she was graciously giving me her back.

  “These are better for the cold,” Remy said. “Keeps everything close to the body.”

  I glanced over at him while tying my boot. My left hand was basically useless, so the going was slow.

  “You’re sure you want to go through with this?” Remy asked, his hand on the door knob. “I still say you’d be better off going back to bed.”

  I shook my head. “I failed them. I’m a cop. I’m supposed to protect people, and they died. I have to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen to anyone else, and I have to make it up to Zack, and Jason. And Becky.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” he said.

  I finished the boots and stood up, a little too quickly. The room swam for a moment, then stabilized. I looked at him expectantly.

  “If you knew for a fact that a grizzly bear had killed your friends, would you rush out to hunt it down by yourself?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Oliver is more dangerous than a grizzly bear. A bear can be killed by something as small as an arrow. A wendigo can only be killed by fire or beheading, and since normal weapons can’t touch it beheading it is something of a challenge. It can’t be bluffed, it can’t be scared. It lives to kill and eat, and we’ll be going after him on his turf.”

  “You’ve done this before, right?”

  “Yes, we have,” Susan said. “But there is no routine doing what we do. Every situation is different. There’s no guarantee that we’ll succeed.”

  “Or that we’ll be able to protect you.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I said. “Now either knock me out and strap me to the bed or let’s get going.”
>
  They looked at each other with expressions of frustration and acceptance, then Susan moved close to her husband. “Stand between us,” Remy said.

  I did so, and as I did they made clenching motions with their right hands. “Stay between us,” Susan whispered. It was tough doing so while leaving the room, but after a bit of sideways scuttling we made it into the hallway.

  The hall was packed with people: doctors making rounds, nurses hurrying from one room to another, orderlies pushing carts. We moved together, carefully staying out of the way. Nobody said anything to us, or even acknowledged our existence.

  Until we got to the end of the hall.

  The same nurse who had just been checking my IV looked up from her desk and eyed me with anger.

  “Officer DeLong, what are you doing out of bed?”

  Remy and Susan looked at each other, surprised. I guess their little invisibility cloak didn’t work on me.

  “I have to water my plants,” I said, pushing past her and leaving the Danahers behind. I knew the hospital well. I didn’t need them to show me the way out.

  “You can’t leave,” the nurse protested, following me to the elevator.

  “I’m signing myself out against medical advice. I don’t need your permission.” The elevator arrived and I stepped in, followed by the still (assumedly) invisible Danahers.

  “You can send me the bill,” I told the nurse as the door closed.

  Eleven

  For all my bravado about finding the Cleave when I was with Remy, when I’m alone I am forced to admit something unpleasant.

  I have no idea how to find it.

  My best hope had been Moira, which in itself should have told me something. After helping Claire leave the coven I had known I’d be lucky to leave our meeting unbloodied, but she had still been my best chance. There are others around who might be useful – there are half a dozen people in Superstition Bay with psychic or precognitive ability that I could name off the top of my head – but there isn’t one of them I think I can trust with something this important. Most of the Grey who have any measure of power worth taking seem to be after the razor for their own means anyway. With no form of backup I have no real direction to take to find Bruce or his damned cargo.

  The traffic thickens like a stew the closer I get to the gulf. While I slog my way through the snail’s-pace traffic I take advantage of the opportunity and check my voice mails. I have eight, again reports of magical problems plaguing local citizens. A woman made of snakes was spotted by the football field of the Superstition Bay High School, luckily no normal citizens got a picture of her. Some odd kind of lights were spotted over Town Hall by about a hundred people, including regular humans. That’s news I don’t want to hear.

  I make a couple of phone calls to some of the local hotels. I’ve been through them all in the last few years, usually tracking down wayward citizens who had gone out on benders. You’d be amazed how many of the Grey turn to alcohol to dull their supernatural sides. The psychics are the worst. I know most of the hotel owners and managers, even though only a couple of people with abilities work there. Most of them know me as nothing more than a helpful private investigator who doesn’t ask any more questions than necessary.

  None of them have anyone staying with them matching Bruce’s description. I hadn’t really expected anything else, to be honest. I know that since he left his wallet back at the house he doesn’t have any money with him, so he couldn’t be paying for a legit room unless he uses magic to obfuscate the transaction. Something tells me that he won’t want to take the risk of standing out even that much.

  I’m only following a hunch in coming this way, but I suspect it’s a good one. Bruce would want to go someplace where he could stay hidden long enough to figure a way out of this town, but he’ll also have very immediate needs, like food and drink. If he’s opportunistic and clever, and I’m betting that he is, then no matter where he is he’ll be trying really hard to find the best way to filch some food, maybe even a dollar or two.

  Hmm. Food. That reminds me of something. It takes a moment to jog my memory, then it hits me: Ellen Cambridge and her haunted restaurant. It’s only a short drive from where I am, not beachfront but close enough. The Cleave seems to be tied to death magic of some kind so if the ghosts that are ransacking her place are looking for it, which I think is perfectly reasonable, they might be a signpost pointing me in the direction I want to go.

  Besides, she needs my help so I’m going to help her. That’s just what I do.

  It’s around ten when I pull into the parking lot of Chowdah, Ellen’s restaurant. The building had been vacant for a long time before she’d moved here ten years ago, but she’d had faith in her dreams of running her own restaurant and her faith had paid off. It’s a good-sized place, with about thirty tables and a small bar in the back. It has a nice, homey feel to it, with lots of wood and warm colors. You could go there with your family, on a first date, on an anniversary, or just because you didn’t feel like cooking. Whatever the occasion, you’re guaranteed to get a meal that would stagger your taste buds for a surprisingly reasonable price.

  The reason for this, of course, isn’t Ellen’s skill as a chef. It’s her skill with edible magics. On her own, without supernatural help, she’s a mediocre cook at best. When she focuses her powers, however, even the most mundane of foods come to savory life, but what the customer got isn’t necessarily what they’re after. If they could see underneath the magic they’d see that their porterhouse was, in reality, slightly overcooked and rather flavorless. The scallops are so rubbery they could be used in a sporting event. The bisque is always broken and oily. Without magic to convince her patrons that they are getting a miracle on a plate she wouldn’t have made her first loan payment.

  Needless to say, I can’t eat there.

  The lot, normally filled to capacity on any given night, is empty except for my Jeep and Ellen’s Camry. I cut across the lot, taking the shortest distance between two points, park next to her and step down from the Jeep. She’s already standing beside her car, looking pensive. She’s closing in on 60, short and depressingly fat with a head full of fading brown hair and has smoked since she was twelve. She’s dividing her attention between my approach and the sound of things breaking in her place. It’s a hell of a racket, punctuated by fragile things shattering and heavy things overturning. Every couple of seconds she twitches at a sound I can’t hear. I wonder what the ghosts are saying to her.

  “Ian, I’m glad to see you,” she says in a thick Boston accent that sounds like a rock pulled over a cheese grater. Not only did she not try to shed her Boston accent but she defiantly rehearses it, and her pride in her heritage was evidenced by the name she’d chosen for her restaurant. God knows that enough time down here tends to wash away native accents quickly enough. I thought about that and wondered, for the hundredth time, why so many of them come to live in Superstition Bay.

  What is it about this town that attracts so many of the monsters?

  “Hello, Ellen,” I say. “What do you have?”

  “It all started last night just after I locked up. I sent everyone home and was doing the bills when all of a sudden something started smashing up the place something fierce. Plates smashed themselves on the walls, the tables tossed around the room. Even the microwave went flying into the dining room. Good thing they waited until I was alone to start lashing out or this would have been beyond hiding.”

  “Poltergeist,” I say.

  “My guess, too. At least two, though. The kitchen blew up first, then I heard the stuff in the basement walk-in getting the same treatment at the same time.”

  “They say anything to you?”

  She shakes her head. “Sounds, but no words. You think you can do anything about them? I kept the customers away tonight by saying I’m repairing the gas lines but if these things stick around they’ll eventually attract attention.”

  That explains what she was hearing amidst the destruction. “I’ll se
e what I can do,” I say, walking around to the back of the Jeep. I pop the hatch and rummage through the miscellany until I find a very large tacklebox secured in place with a bungee cord. I verify that it’s the green box and not the red (the red one is for a very extreme and very specific emergency), pull it out and walk back around to stand next to Ellen.

  “Give me a few minutes,” I say. “I’ll find out what they want and set about clearing them out.”

  “You do that and you eat free for a month,” she says. She means it to be generous, I’m sure, but it’s still all I can do to keep from grimacing. I carry the box to the entrance of the restaurant and step inside.

  The inside of the room is filled with shadows, the ambient lights of the town not allowing for true darkness. I feel for the wall switches and am pleased when the light fixtures flare to life, filling the spacious room with golden light. Seconds later a flying chair shatters the fixture in the middle of the ceiling into glittering bits, quartering the useful light.

  I still have a good view of the remains of the service area, enough to be able to navigate the wreckage without tripping over the debris. A large chunk of the room has been savagely torn apart. Not a table remains upright, not a chair stands tall. I note with interest that the windows aren’t broken, though. That’s interesting, and suggestive.

  Ellen has redecorated sometime recently, but she hasn’t changed the physical layout of the place. The dining area is a spacious rectangle, with the swinging kitchen doors set back far from the man entrance. The only other doors in the room are the restrooms and the emergency exit on the far right wall. Perfect.

  I set down the box, open it and pull out a short cardboard tube. I pop open the top and spill out a thin line of salt just inside the door. I follow the wall all the way around and do the same thing to the emergency exit. Just to be safe I add salt to the window sills. The whole time I’m doing this the whole building is alarmingly quiet. Ignoring the implications of the sudden stillness I peek in both bathrooms just to be sure they’re empty, and once I’m satisfied that they are I close them and salt their doors, too. Now the only entrance I haven’t tended to is the kitchen. I step back into the serving area and set the tacklebox on the floor. I put the salt down next to the box and pull out two more objects, a piece of thick cardboard, quartered and folded, and a rough-hewn triangular piece of slate with three short, felt-tipped legs.