Ellen jumped as he slammed the phone in her ear. "Son of a bitch," she muttered. She decided to let it go for the night. It was obvious that the man was not going to let her talk to Pat. She sat up suddenly. What if he was a murderer and Pat was in danger? He had admitted that she'd dialed the right number. Ellen chided herself for such a ridiculous thought. He was just hot to trot and didn't want to be interrupted. Ellen wished Pat weren't so easy with the men. Time and again she'd chastised Pat, who had dubbed Ellen 'the mother hen' to which Ellen replied, "Well somebody's got to look after you!"
"Come on, Ellen, I'm a big girl. Nothing's going to happen to me. I know how to take care of myself."
"How do you know? You meet these guys in bars and for all you know they could be serial killers. Even if they aren't, you might catch something that a pill can't cure. In the olden days they would have called you 'a fallen woman.' Don't you think it would be nice to have a regular boyfriend sometimes?"
"Don't be such a prude, Ellen!" Pat had laughed. It was a conversation they'd had a number of times: Ellen reproving, Pat shrugging it off. One of these days Pat was going to find herself in over her head. Maybe she was in trouble right now. Something was wrong here, very wrong. Ellen dialed 911. A tired sounding woman answered.
"911, can I help you?"
"Hello, yes! I hope so. I think my friend is in trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Well, I think she could be in danger. I mean, I think maybe a man could be in her apartment who's not supposed to be there."
"Did you see someone break into her apartment?"
"Well no, but a strange man answered her telephone."
"So what makes you think something's wrong? Why do you think your friend is in danger?"
"He denied she even existed. Said he never heard of her. Told me I dialed the wrong number."
"Have you considered that perhaps you did dial the wrong number?"
"Well, yes. I asked him. I said, 'Is this 555-0126?' and he said yes, and that's her number."
"Don't you think it's a bit unusual for an intruder to answer the phone and admit you've dialed the correct phone number?"
"Well yes, I did think of that. But my friend Pat, she never lets men answer her phone. She dates several men and she'd never take the risk of one catching another one. She doesn't let men hang around her apartment unless she's there either so it's really strange."
"I see." The woman sounded doubtful.
"And she's late for a wedding reception."
"Her own wedding?"
"No, one of our closest friends. Wouldn't that make you kind of suspicious?"
"Possibly," the woman sighed. "Look, I'll send someone to check it out. Could you give me your friend's full name and address?"
She gave the woman the information and hung up. "Pat better have a damn good explanation for this!" Ellen spat, suddenly adopting the operator's tone of disbelief.
Table of Contents
* * *
Utica, Illinois
Black, twisted trees stood angrily against the grey sky, their leafless arms unmoving as if in death. Frozen field grass snapped under the weight of heavily booted feet. The searchers looked insignificant against the backdrop of grey. Several local farmers had volunteered to help search for Eric Weissmuller's body while the police questioned his family hoping for a clue.
It was unusual not to have snow on the ground in December and the expanse of white would have been helpful to their search. Footprints would have been easy to spot in the snow, as would blood or any other piece of evidence that might have been dropped. Without any visual clues they were searching blind. Eric's body could be anywhere in the surrounding farmland which stretched for miles. They searched among the frozen weeds and bushes but so far, their efforts had been fruitless.
The evidence pointed to foul play and Police Chief Hunsinger hoped that Eric's body would be found somewhere nearby, otherwise he doubted it would be found at all. The Corn Belt contained too many remote areas perfect for hiding a body. He suddenly felt homesick for the city - a place where nothing stayed hidden for long.
The police dogs had been brought in and their whines mingled with the yips of the farmer's dogs. Chief Hunsinger wished that the locals would have left their dogs at home. The farmers all believed that their canine trackers could out-do the police dogs and there must have been close to twenty dogs and as many farmers searching the fields. The dogs had found old boots, a dead possum, a car battery, a number of bird carcasses and evidence of a rabbit's nest, but no sign of Eric.
Several dog fights had to be broken up as the farmer's dogs battled for supremacy over every new find. All of these extraneous dogs and people had trampled the area surrounding Eric's truck. Whatever tracks Eric or his abductors may have left were now hopelessly obliterated. Chief Hunsinger stood cheerlessly next to his police car watching the searchers. A wizened old man sauntered up to him. The man had a gaunt, weather-worn face.
"Still lookin' fer that Eric feller, aren't ye? Well, ye ain't gonta find 'im! I told them police fellers earlier that I seen those big, bright lights in the sky yestidy. You want t'find Eric, you better call up them extry-terrestrial fellers! Tee hee hee!" The old man glanced up at the sky with a fanatical gleam in his eyes then sauntered away.
Chief Hunsinger shook his head, turning to Officer Stokes who had left the search party and had joined the Chief in his observation. "Takes all kinds, don't it, Ed?"
Officer Stokes nodded in agreement, scuffing his foot at the frozen dirt. "Yeah, and the next thing you know some loony'll come along and claim that the lights in the sky are the reason there ain't no snow in December, too!" he snorted derisively. "These farmers sure have some strange notions about things." Chief Hunsinger shrugged noncommittally.
The sun was sinking rapidly and soon the search would have to be called off for the day. That didn't bode well for Eric's chances if by some remote possibility he were still alive. Chief Hunsinger had hoped to find footprints, a patch of clothing, evidence that could be traced to a kidnapper, Eric's unconscious body or God forbid, his lifeless body. So far they had found nothing but Eric's truck.
The previous night they'd received a call reporting a runaway pickup truck. The driverless truck had been careening around the empty field with a flat tire and a missing door. The door had turned up near a tree. The truck belonged to Eric Weissmuller.
A neighbor driving by had seen him working on the truck shortly before the call. Eric often worked late into the night on his beloved truck - fine-tuning the engine, replacing parts that still had years of life left in them, painting the rest of the parts so that the engine sported a showroom shine, washing off any specks of dust that had dared to land on his precious "lady" and polishing her to a blue satin sheen.
That was the last anyone had seen of Eric except for his truck bouncing erratically through the field. The engine was still running when Chief Hunsinger arrived and the runaway truck had already caused one police car to get stuck in a mud rut. Chasing down the truck to stop it had been like an old-fashioned rodeo except nobody was cheering. They'd finally thrown railroad ties in its path, stopping the truck long enough for someone to jump in and yank the key.
Bob Weissmuller, Eric's father, stood leaning up against a police car with his face illuminated by the rotating blue lights. His cheeks had a sucked in look, accentuating the bitter lines that had appeared on either side of his face. His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets and a pipe hung from the corner of his mouth. His shabby brown coat was a perfect match for his drab, brown cap. His hobnail boots had seen better days as well. Bob Weissmuller was a frugal man and did not believe in spending money needlessly.
He silently watched the searchers. The only sign that he was distressed was the quick succession of smoke puffs emanating from the pipe. Eric was his only son. The birth had been a complicated one rendering Ann Weissmuller incapable of having more children, so Eric was the end of the line until he fathered children of
his own. That was a hard pill for a farmer to swallow. Ann Weissmuller did not know that her only son was missing. She was visiting her sister in Joliet and they hadn't been able to contact her.
A young man in his mid-twenties walked up to Chief Hunsinger. "Sergeant?"
"Hmm? No, chief. Chief Hunsinger. What can I do for you?"
"I'm Mark Boeing, Eric's friend. His best friend." He emphasized the word "best." Mark looked around as if to make sure that no one could hear them. "I need to talk to you in private. It's really important."
Chief Hunsinger looked up with keen interest. "Do you have some information about Eric?"
"Yes! I mean, I think so."
Chief Hunsinger waited expectantly. "Well?" he prompted.
Mark stood uncomfortably, fidgeting with his leather gloves. He frowned at a group of people standing nearby. "Can we talk over there? Away from all these people?" Chief Hunsinger took Mark by the elbow and steered him away from the crowd hoping to finally get the break he needed in this case.
When they were far enough away, Mark let out his breath as if he'd been holding it. His discomfort did not seem to lessen and his gaze shifted nervously as he spoke. "I overheard old man Billings telling you about those funny looking lights in the sky. I wanted to talk to you about something but not here. Maybe we could meet somewhere tomorrow?"
Oh no, not another one, thought Chief Hunsinger. Why did the crackpots always seem to show up whenever something strange happened? But you never knew, the kid might know something. "Don't you think tomorrow might be a little late for your friend, if he's in trouble?"
Mark answered, "No, a day won't make any difference if what he told me is true."
It was getting dark and it was well past time to call off the searchers for the day. "Okay," Hunsinger sighed. "What time?"
"I could meet you by the old Starnes' farm at 4:00 p.m."
The Starnes' farm had been vacant for decades and the house was a profusion of rotting wood and boarded up windows surrounded by tall, spindly weeds. Some said it was haunted by Billy Starnes who had been murdered there. It had been a gruesome killing with Billy Starnes butchered in his bed while his family lie sleeping down the hall. Billy was not yet twenty years old when it happened. It was a double tragedy as Billy was engaged to be married. Emily, his fiancee, had been inconsolable. She'd been the one to find the bloody body.
The prevailing theory was that her previous beau, Doug Darnell, had murdered Billy. Nothing was ever proven and both the Starnes' family and Emily had moved away. Some said Emily had been shipped off to a mental institution, never recovering from the gruesome murder of her beau. Rumors abounded when it came to the Starnes' murder and the old farmhouse had developed quite a reputation as a haunted house. The Starnes' farm had remained vacant ever since. Farmers were a superstitious bunch and nobody would touch the place after that.
Chief Hunsinger wondered, Why'd this kid pick the Starnes' farm for a meeting? He must be as batty as the old man. To Mark he said, "Okay, Mark, see you at the Starnes' farm tomorrow at 4:00 p.m."
Table of Contents
* * *
THE LEGENDS OF KENT
The astronomer Edmond Halley, whose photo was hanging on Max's wall, had been born and raised in Kent County, England. Brody knew that Max had a fascination with both Edmond Halley and Kent County as evidenced by the many books Max owned about both. One book had been flagged with a sticky stamped with the cube and he'd brought it home along with the Cantor papers. It was the history of Kent County, England - a place rich in myths, legends, and bizarre history - and it had been written when people still believed in magic, witchcraft and curses.
Brody had no idea what connection the book might have to Max's disappearance but he began to read it along with the Cantor papers hoping for a clue. A few sections were highlighted with a yellow marker and he zeroed in on those, immersing himself in subjects that Max considered important.
Strood was one such subject. Strood, a town in Kent County, England, started out as a bridge built over the River Medway by the Romans. Archeological evidence suggested that a good size Roman settlement was once built there. Both Roman and Saxon graves were unearthed near Temple Farm in Strood in which a variety of weapons, a bronze ring with an amethyst stone, a hoard of Roman coins and other antiquities were found.
The old Roman roads lead to the Hoo Peninsula in Kent where the lands of the ancient Hoo All Hallows were located. Hoo All Hallows was once under the rule of the monastery in Peterborough which was built by Bishop Sexwulf2 of the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia in the year 675. The kingdom of Mercia occupied the central portion of what is now England and came after the Celts, Romans and Jutes during the years 527 to 918 A.D.
Offa, the King of Mercia from 757 to 796, introduced the first penny to England which was made of pure silver and which was known as a pennyweight or pence at various times. It took 240 of King Offa's silver pennies to weigh one Saxon pound, also known as a Tower Pound, which was 12 ounces.
In the year 764, King Offa of Mercia, who was the son of Thingfrith3 of Mercia, granted the lands now known as Strood to Bishop Eardwulf of Rochester, England. Four hundred years later in the year 1165, Strood was cursed by Saint Thomas Becket who was the Archbishop of Canterbury. As archbishop, Becket was one of the highest ranked bishops in the Church of England and a curse by one of such high ranking would be very powerful indeed. Strood, which was once under the ownership of a bishop, had now been cursed by an even higher bishop.
Becket had a falling out with King Henry II and a bitter feud had been waging between them over matters of church and state, with the de Broc family planted right in the middle of the feud. Robert de Broc sent his nephew John to find and lay insults upon Becket. The young John caught up with Becket just outside of Strood and on Christmas Eve, he cut the tails off of Becket's horse and sumpter-mule with the help of the townsfolk who had sided with the king. When Becket discovered the dastardly deed, he laid a curse upon the de Broc family and all of the people of Strood that their descendants would thereafter be born with tails until such time that the citizens did repent.
The men of Kent were mocked even in faraway lands where people believed them to be men born with tails. Apparently the citizens of Strood never repented because almost three hundred years later, an Italian by the name of Enea Piccolomini reported that he had traveled to the village in England where men were born with tails. Piccolomini later became Pope Pius II. To this day the men of Kent are known as the Kentish Longtails.
The term Kentish Long-tails existed even in Bailey's dictionary according to Volume 122 of the London Quarterly Review published in 1867, this being more than 700 years after Strood had been cursed. The men of Kent divided themselves to be called a man of Kent if he were from East Kent and a Kentish man if he were from West Kent, so that even in Kent itself a certain portion of the men were being disowned.
The London Quarterly Review told how the Portuguese preacher Vieyra had said that even Satan was tailless until his fall, after which the appendage grew "as an outward and visible token that he had lost the rank of an angel and had fallen to the level of a brute."
The existence of men with tails was known throughout the ancient world and Kent was not the only place where tailed men were known to exist. An island in the Indian Sea was the home of a tribe of tailed men which may have been the Isle of Satyrs as described by the esteemed Ptolemy4. Even the revered Pliny5, whose knowledge is referenced even today, spoke of men with tails and extraordinary swiftness of foot. The Isle of Batochina was reputed to have men with tails, and other tailed men were thought to live high up on a mountain near Canton, China. The island of Borneo was also afflicted, their tails being described as four inches long and very stiff, requiring the use of perforated seats on which to sit.
In the year 1677 which was during the life of Edmond Halley, the Isle of Formosa was said to have men with tails like brute beasts. The story was told by John Struys who had seen such a man with his own eyes. Struy
s witnessed the execution of a man who, upon being stripped, was exposed of a tail about a foot long and covered with red hair much like the tail of a cow. Other such stories were told of Formosa as well.
In Africa, the Niam-Niam people were reputed to possess tails. Men with tails existed even in the year 1861, some tails having hair and others being hairless. It was thought that the term tailor originated from such men. Albertus Magnus6, possessor of the powerful Philosopher's Stone, personally knew of three such tailed beings found in the forests of Saxony, one male and one female, and a third whose dead body was salted and sent to Antioch where it was presented to the Emperor Constantine. Magnus was the author of The Book of Secrets which spoke of astrology, the magical properties of stones and other such things which he considered important.
While Albertus Magnus might consider the magical properties of stones and men with tails to be important, Brody's head was spinning over the bizarre facts he was reading in Max's book. None of it told him why Max had disappeared unless he was off searching the jungles of some remote island for men with tails. All Brody got out of it was the discovery that his friend was very strange indeed. As to why the book was stamped with the cube to be protected along with the rest of the Cantor papers was a mystery to Brody, but he read on hoping that somehow it would help him find his missing friend. The legends of Kent didn't just encompass men with tails, the legends included a number of notable people who'd lived in Kent or had passed through including the writer Charles Dickens.
While the curse of the tails divided the county of Kent in two, the shires7 of England were once separated into divisions of one hundred persons or households. Such divisions were called the hundred of so that you'd have the Hundred of Greens Norton, the Hundred of Eggerton and the Hundred of Ham. Most of the Hoo Peninsula in Kent was part of the Hundred of Hoo.
The Cantor Dimension Page 2