When they were out in the hall, Abby finally asked. "What was that all about?"
"Nothing really," said Dane. "I hope it's nothing, at least. If anything ever comes of it, I'll let you know."
"Who was the 'her' that Alastair was not supposed to tell?"
Dane gave a strained smile. "Funny thing, that. I guess you need to be under the same promise since we're going there right now. Don't mention it to Linda."
Linda was Dane's long time friend and ally. She was also a well-known professor at Avalon University specializing in local history. Dane wasn't sure how much she could help in this case, especially if what Alastair said was true - that New Avalon had no history of werewolves - but Dane figured she was still worth checking with. Since it was a weekend, Linda was not at the cluttered university office he typically found her at. He could visit Linda at her home in Gallows Hill, which was not far away from Alastair's loft.
Gallows Hill was a small neighborhood on a hill overlooking Old Avalon. It was once what its name implied - the hill where criminals were hung until dead. Thankfully, it hadn't been used for that purpose for a very long time. No one lived where the actual gallows had been, instead there was a small park at the top of the hill. Around it were late Victorian-style graystone buildings made with local limestone. These older buildings on hilly streets were particularly appealing to affluent transplants from New York and San Francisco, making Gallows Hill a sought after neighborhood despite its morbid name.
Linda owned her home through virtue of heredity - her family had lived there for generations, and once her parents passed away, she inherited it. As an expert in local history, there was no possibility of her selling the property. She was not going to give up a piece of the New Avalon story she dearly loved.
Climbing the short stairs to the door, Dane knocked and waited. After nearly a minute, no one answered. By his patient and cross armed posture, it appeared to Abby that Dane knew he'd be waiting on the steps.
"You told her we were coming by, right?" said Abby.
"Well..." said Dane. "I intended to. But, y'know, sometimes I don't get around to things!"
"You could have told me! I could have easily called or texted her to let her know."
Dane shrugged. "It just slipped my mind. I've had a lot going on!"
Abby shook her head. She looked to the door just in time to see Linda's face look out the small decorative windows near the door, the woman looking shocked before disappearing. The door still didn't open.
"I think you scared her off," said Abby. "Since you didn't call, she could have something going on. Like a reading club. Or a gentleman caller or something."
"Nonsense! She is probably just at home doing history... stuffs. The same stuff she always does. She must do that all the time."
"You really have no sense of people's personalities, do you?" said Abby. "It's like you think everyone's as one dimensional as you."
"Nonsense! I have plenty of dimensions!" said Dane.
The door finally opened. Linda was out of breath, her hair tussled. "Okay, hello! Welcome to my home! I have the tea going, a pot of coffee brewing, and have the good china ready." She took a deep breath.
"Did you just do all that now?" said Abby.
"Yes, of course!" said Linda, still getting her breath. "I have to entertain guests! Come in! Come in!"
Linda ushered them into a living room at the front of the house. It was a nice little sitting room with a window that looked out to the street. Dane sat down in an armchair while Abby sat on the couch. Abby expected Linda to occupy the remaining armchair, but instead she raced out of the room.
"Where's she going?" said Abby.
"Checking on the tea or biscuits, I imagine," said Dane.
"Biscuits?"
"Linda is a different person when at home," said Dane. "The perennial hostess! I've fought against it before, but there's no stopping her. She's like a primal force of tea making. Best to just roll with it! And I'll have you know that this could be way worse! Her dear departed mother wouldn't let you visit without forcing a meal and two pots of tea down your throat. Linda is quite lax in comparison!"
As they waited, Abby looked around the room. There was something very grandmotherly about the space. Every piece of furniture looked antique. Lace doilies covered most surfaces, such as the coffee table, under each lamp on the side tables, and on the hutch under an ornate clock in a glass dome. The couch was old and had probably been refurbished many times. Abby could see places where Dane's armchair had been fixed, but it was only noticeable if one looked very closely. Despite that, nothing looked shabby. It was a room out of time. Abby wondered if Alastair had ever been here and if he had found himself in heaven.
But where the furniture seemed grandmotherly, the walls did not. The walls were filled with a variety of framed maps, documents, and portraits. Abby could believe the furniture was family hand-me-downs, but the walls were Linda. Upon these walls were the proudest historical finds that Linda had accumulated over her years. Not the stuff she put up on the walls of her office at Avalon U for the students and faculty that visited her - this stuff was what she was truly proud of, the things that meant the most to her.
Abby did notice a particular photo in a frame on the wall that wasn't historic. It was the picture of a family. The father had kind eyes, but his mustache was stern. The full figured mother had a broad smile, the kind which would make anyone feel welcome. And in front of them, two children - two blonde daughters, one shy, the other clever. Abby could tell that the shy one was Linda. The other girl had a knowing smile, the kind that said she knew more than everyone else.
When Abby turned to Dane to ask about the photo, she noticed that his gaze had also fallen on it, but his face held a deep frown. She opened her mouth to ask him about it, but Dane must have read her intent and shook his head. It was then that Linda came back into the room. She had her hands full with a silver tray cluttered with cups, a tea kettle, a plate of snacks, various containers, and silverware. As she carried the tray into the room, Linda tried to blow a blonde lock out of her face, but failed. "Here, I have everything we need!"
Abby rose to try and help, but Linda said, "No, no, I have it!"
Linda put the tray down on the coffee table. "There's English Breakfast tea, a cup of black coffee for Dane, both real milk and almond milk, some sugar, honey, and raw sugar, and I have a tray of scones - they're left over from this morning, so I'm sorry if they're stale! Let me know if you want some fresh ones and I'll go make them!" Then Linda stepped back and sat down in the remaining armchair, her body going completely slack with a big sigh.
"You didn't need to go to all that effort!" said Abby.
"No, no, it's no trouble at all!" said Linda tiredly, undermining her own statement.
Dane simply grabbed his cup of coffee and began shoveling large amounts of sugar into it. "Thank you for this."
"It's fine, no trouble," said Linda, almost sleepily. "What brings you by today?"
"History consult!" said Dane, sipping his coffee. He paused, deliberating on the taste. Then he put the cup down and began spooning more sugar in. "Kind of a long shot! Not really your expertise, but I figured I'd ask, since we were in the area."
"In the area?" said Linda. "So Alastair didn't know? Or he wouldn't help?"
"I'm pretty sure it was the former, but it's so hard to tell with him," said Dane, now squeezing a large amount of honey into his cup. He tasted it again, then nodded and smiled.
"So what is it?" asked Linda.
"What do you know about werewolf bikers?" said Dane, casually holding his coffee cup.
Linda took a second to stare at Dane strangely. "Werewolf... bikers? Are you sure this isn't some romance novel you've been reading?"
"A romance novel?" said Abby over her tea.
"Oh, you know, they always have that sort of thing," said Linda nervously. "Millionaires, bikers, werewolves, vampires, lumberjacks... They play on the unique and interesting male roles..." When t
here was no recognition from Abby or Dane, Linda began to blush. "So I hear! Doesn't matter! What did you want to know about... werewolf bikers?"
"Alastair didn't have anything useful to tell us about werewolves," said Dane. "And I didn't bother to ask him about bikers. But my long shot idea was that you might know of something in Avalon history to help."
"About werewolves or bikers?" said Linda.
"Both. Either, really." Dane put down his now empty cup. He stared at the tea kettle but decided against it.
"Like most of America, New Avalon has had motorcycle clubs, especially since the fifties and sixties," said Linda. "I don't know their entire histories off the top of my head, but there's nothing particularly significant to Avalon's development. The city hasn't had a huge problem with outlaw motorcycle gangs."
"And what about werewolves?" said Dane.
"Information that's actually off use to you? Probably nothing," said Linda. "As you know, because of our unique past together, I look at history from a different perspective, particularly the odd events where it feels like key information is missing. It's rarely anything I'd risk publishing, but I notice things here and there and then I look for other documents from the time. Because I've been looking at this city's history through that lens, I'm fairly confident saying that there has not been a werewolf sighting in recent history."
"Well, that's what I thought," said Dane, starting to stand up. "Alastair thought that too. I'm sorry we wasted your time then. It was good coffee however -"
"But," said Linda interrupting, "it's worth noting that there does seem to be accounts of werewolves in Avalon. But you have to go back to the nineteenth century for that."
"Really?" said Dane sitting back down and leaning forward to listen. "Now I'm interested."
"I've seen it come up in two major sources of Avalon history," said Linda. "First are the respected works of Clayton Heath. Explorer, adventurer, and amateur historian, he collected many stories of strange things in the area and wrote them down. There are some fantastical mentions, but most are simple details of what people told him or what he saw. I say respected, but many still called his writing fantastic, suggesting there were tall tales mixed in with his writings. Since he was essentially an early folklorist or cultural anthropologist, merely writing down what he heard and saw, that might be a little unfair. But the point is, there's some dissention in the truth of his stories. I mention that because the other source is less respected than Heath's writings."
"Less respected than possible tall tales?" said Abby.
Linda nodded. "I'm referring to the journals of Lyle Matheson. Gunslinger, bounty hunter, and according to his journals, monster hunter."
"What? Lyle Matheson? I didn't think that guy even existed for real!" said Abby.
"For real?" repeated Dane, confused at both Abby knowing the name and thinking the person in question didn't exist.
"Oh come on, you've seen him!" said Abby. "They use his picture at some local restaurants, especially at Six Shooter BBQ by the lake! Lyle Matheson is this rugged cowboy type. All hat and revolvers. They make him look like a cross between Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, and the Marlboro Man! He's Avalon's own distortion of masculinity, used to sell alcohol, cigarettes, and barbecue!"
Linda winced. "It is true that he has been... let's say 'appropriated' by local pop culture and businesses, but there really was a Lyle Matheson."
"And he hunted monsters," said Dane.
"Right," said Linda. "Or at least according to his own journals. He wasn't a great writer by any standards, so his journals are difficult to read and often marred by time. But he claimed he hunted strange beasts that boggled the great minds of the city and preyed upon men in the Avalon Basin. And one of the monsters he hunted was man-like wolves."
"Now that's the good stuff! What did he say about them?" said Dane.
"He hunted them typically out near the Appaquagh areas," said Linda, noting the American Indian tribe that once lived in the New Avalon area. "Which could be simple code for some skirmishes with the Appaquagh. But occasionally he claimed he hunted lone figures that were 'afflicted' with the condition in small towns."
"How did he fight them?" said Abby. "Did he have any special tricks?"
"I'm sure this isn't a great revelation for you, but he used silver bullets," said Linda.
"So silver does work!" said Dane.
"We should have bought those knives from Alastair," said Abby. "But are we really sure silver works? I imagine back then silver bullets were expensive and hard to come by. Maybe he was just making that up for... I don't know, his audience."
"But these were his private journals, right?" said Dane.
"Right, and I know for sure that he at least possessed silver bullets," said Linda. She nodded to one of her walls. Hanging on the wall was something Abby hadn't noticed before. She stood up to look at it. In a framed box was an old revolver. The gun was a darker metal than the wild west guns Abby had seen in movies, but no less impressive. Underneath the gun and lined up for display were twelve bullets. Twelve silver bullets. A typed note in the box identified it as the gun of Lyle Matheson.
"Wow!" said Abby.
"One of my prized finds," said Linda, beaming. "I'm amazed at the luck that brought it to me. It was a miracle just finding a pistol in working condition in the collection of an antique gun collector. He knew it was old, but had no idea it was Matheson's! But once I had it, I was able to confirm that it was Matheson's. From there it was easy to confirm that Matheson owed silver bullets. Of course, the real miracle is that I was able to purchase it from the collector at all! It's one of my treasured possessions. It's a real piece of history and it's mine!"
"It's in such good condition!" said Abby. "Considering it's like a century old."
"Over a century," said Linda. "And I keep it in good condition. At least once a month I take it down, clean it, oil it, and keep everything working as it should. I don't want it to decay from neglect. I think history should be protected, but it also needs to be cared for."
"So if silver works," said Abby. "Maybe we could borrow this? We'll be facing some werewolves and even an antique revolver will be better than nothing if we use silver bullets."
Linda's face paled and froze. She didn't want to be a bad host or bad friend, but she had just indicated it was a treasured possession she had found and purchased at great cost of time and resources. Didn't they know it was rude to ask to borrow it?
"No," said Dane. Linda prepared to be embarrassed as Dane would say he couldn't do that to her, but she was thankful that he went a different direction. "I don't use guns. That's not my thing."
"Fine, I'll use it," said Abby.
"No, not you either, not if you want to accompany me."
"I'll point out that Jameson and his gun were integral to you stopping Honnenheim in his Omega robot," said Abby.
"No guns," said Dane. "In the heat of the moment, concessions are made, but neither you nor I are bringing one to make a bad situation worse."
Abby pouted. She didn't like taking such a petulant position, but she also knew that this was still Dane's show. She could walk away, but then she wouldn't get to see what happened nor have a story for Authentic Avalon. She reluctantly sat back down. She still had a bad feeling about seeing werewolves without silver or a backup plan.
"Did Matheson have anything else to say about werewolves?" said Dane.
Linda relaxed. "Everything else he talked about were conventional hunting techniques, at least according to the part of his journals we can still read. He was a hunter, so he used traps whenever he could. Silver bullets were the only really notable thing compared to those hunting regular animals."
Dane nodded. "Good to know, but it doesn't really help us. I was hoping for something else. Maybe more details about how to use wolfsbane. Or that they are vulnerable to cell phone radiation or operatic singing or something else. We could use those. But we don't have any silver weapons."
"You can use some of my good
silverware!" blurted out Linda. Since she had a negative reaction to the borrowing of the gun, she felt like she needed to help somehow. "They're not very sharp but they could help!"
"No, that's fine, we don't need to take your fine silverware," said Abby.
"But they could protect you!" said Linda. Dane began to respond, but his protests fell upon deaf ears.
Ultimately, the only way to calm Linda and not be too rude was for Dane and Abby to take one piece of silverware each. As they said their goodbyes and went on their way, Abby wasn't sure if it was silver or just silver plated, but either way, she didn't think the butter knife she now had in her purse was very deadly. She also wasn't sure in what situation the silver pie cutter Dane now had in his satchel would help with unless there was a werewolf cake and tea party. But effective or not, those pieces of silverware were their only defenses as they went into the lion's maw. It was time to see some werewolf bikers.
Dive Bar Delving
On the North end of Riverside, the Poodle Hat Lounge epitomized such colorful slang as "hole in the wall", "dive bar", and "complete and utter waste of space that should have been bulldozed decades ago". The brick and stone façade had seen much better days, covered in years of dirt, grime, and cigarette smoke. There was a window that in theory could allow people to look into the bar, but it was so dirty that it might as well have been opaque. It was not clear if the sign above the bar was once lit by lights or neon, but these days it was cold and dead. This was an old bar just hanging on, mystically alive and still puffing on cigarettes while the grim reaper looked on with disinterest. It attempted to attract no new customers. If you went to the Poodle Hat Lounge, you knew why you were here, and if you didn't, you should have gone somewhere else.
A line of motorcycles stretched down the curb, pausing only to box in a car unlucky enough to have parked too close to the bar.
"I guess there's one good thing about a motorcycle gang," said Abby, looking at the bikes. "We always know when they are somewhere."
Walking through the door, they found the bar itself to be dim, marred only by colored lights. The furniture inside matched the age of the exterior - old wooden tables, scratched and stained from many years of use. The surprising part of the interior decor was that it was decorated with Christmas decorations. Strings of multicolored lights, hanging tinsel, even a small Christmas tree with wrapped presents under it. Since it was spring, Abby was first inclined to think that the decorations had been left up, but on second glance, some of the decorations were old. Some of the strings of lights were bulbs that hadn't been made for decades. If the decorations had been left up due to neglect, then they had been neglected for many, many years.
Burning Monday: (Dane Monday 2) Page 12