terror—not mine, hunger, make it stop, lips raw, hands wet, unclean, untamed, not real, don’t listen to it, tiny mewling thing beneath by boot, crushing, smashing, crashing, remaking, reshaping, the gaze of a god, through me, no secrets left to hide, no more lies, focus on something else
“Now none of us can hear his Call. The Children of Cthulhu cannot hear their father’s words. The Ancient Masters say it’s because the Lord has entered a deeper slumber before His great awakening. But never before was He this silent. And I know, I KNOW that somehow this is YOUR doing!”
He sent a kick into my side, I felt a rib snap and a rush of pain.
Pain.
taking unbidden, desire is everything, pain, no limits, no rules, pain, no end, use the pain
“I know it’s all that technical wizardry of your kind that’s causing it. Think you can fool me? Think I care about the damn bees? No, it’s the Call, I know you are blocking the Call, and I will stop you. And you will tell me everything you know about it, what you know about me, or I will keep you like this, with these phantoms running through your head, for months. Years! Until every last shred of sanity you have is gone and you are a drooling, mindless—”
I stopped listening to him and started thinking, remembering. The memories and feelings I thought I had completely suppressed are the ones I turn to.
Pain.
A dusty field in Iraq, a house with targets inside, children playing soccer nearby. Too close. Overhead is an F-15E Strike Eagle beyond the clouds, circling, a laser-guided bomb ready to drop, and me with the laser designator to guide the payload home. Orders have to be followed. Must destroy the enemy. Waiting until the last minute, hoping the kids would stop playing and leave the area. They don’t. No more time, the Eagle is running on fumes, so I sight the house with the laser. I pretend I don’t hear the children laughing. Thunder. Light. Targets eliminated with an acceptable level of collateral damage.
Pain.
Rebecca, a colleague, no, something more. Beautiful, funny, smart, sexy. We fuck, later we make love. She gets me to trust her. She uses that. She plays me, that was her plan all along. She’s messing with the things we are meant to stop. She’s making deals with those things from outside. Says I can join her. We can be great together, forever. I think about it. I still do. I feel the vibrations from her slowing heart running up the blade to the handle of the knife in my hand. I stare into her eyes until the light fades from them, then kiss her one last time.
Pain.
A man tied to a chair, naked, sweating, trembling, bleeding, pleading. I walk toward him, holding a pair of pliers, not saying a word. I think he knows nothing. I have to be sure.
Pain.
Crosshairs through a scope, the butt of a Russian-made Dragunov SVD rifle against my shoulder, the funeral for an old woman before me. Bait that I knew my target couldn’t resist. He doesn’t. His wife and three children are with him, he’s holding the five-year-old. This is the only chance to get the kill, after this he’ll go back into hiding, but I have a bad angle and there’s too much wind. I can’t be sure of a clean shot, but with this much gun, I know that even if the “obstruction” gets in the way, the bullet will rip through it and hit the target. I go with my gut and squeeze the trigger.
Pain.
I use my years of pain, the mostly repressed memories of every shitty thing I’ve ever had to do to make sure that humanity can scurry across this ball of mud for just a little while longer. I dive into them, wallow in them; they are old friends and they’re real. They’re not a phantom mindfuck, they’re real; I should know, I caused them and they start to block out the gift Chang gave me. I can flex my fingers, my eyes focus, and I see him notice it. I watch the smile fade from his face, see him turn to run, but I’m quicker. My hand shoots out, finds the grip of my .45, and I shoot the bastard in the back. He falls to his knees, so I shoot him again. He sprawls on the ground, twitching, gasping, and I empty the gun into him. I eject the spent mag, place the partially loaded one from before back in, and empty that into him too. When the automatic’s slide locks back with no more rounds left, then I get up, wincing with the pain in my side, and watch as all the years Chang had unnaturally extended his life by, rapidly rot away. He goes from looking like a man in his forties to a geriatric to a withered mummy and finally to a pile of dust with a few bones sticking out in a matter of moments.
Fucking magic.
I start the long walk out, making a mental note to call the cleanup crew as soon as I can get a signal. I wonder what happened at the CtAC base did Frank Nardi convince Derek to leave with him? I wonder what Monica will think when she never hears from Lester again. I wonder if I can justify saying goodbye to her, or if that will just put her in danger. And I wonder if the insane, ancient, and ancient evil worshiping man I just killed was right about the bees, his blocked Call, and his war on cell towers.
Even doing what I do, there were always strange things in the world that I didn’t know about.
I liked it that way.
A WALK IN THESHADOWS
Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.
Rising star. Corner office. Secretary with an ass that could start a revolution. Perks, perks, and terrific perks that turn heads and bring out jealousy. All mine—in six months or so. That’s what they were all telling me.
My golden-boy gig in New York ended with gunfire. My assignment: simple high-society-meets-gangland divorce/fishing expedition—get pics of her doing the horizontal tango with him. Four months swimming with the vampires and nastyass sharks. SNAP-SNAP-SNAP Name/Date/Time/COLOR photos/Facts turned into multiple bad guys DEAD—no hot jazz playing, no voiceover. Three once-prestigious New York family patriarchs tits-up. Me wounded and holding the handgun that put them down. It was good shoot, but my bosses didn’t like the slant the press plastered from Mid-town to the Burroughs.
Bye-bye. See ya. Take your pink slip out of the door with the red EXIT sign. Do it now!
A police lieutenant (homicide) in Arkham was an old war buddy; we spent a tour together in the Land of Sand when the dervishes were swirlin’ up a storm of “Incoming.” Picked up the phone; yeah, he had an idea about getting me outta Dodge. And in one piece, the piece that was left after the ambush.
Arkham Detective Agency. Franklin Nardi. NYPD blue. Put in his twenty and took his pension. He had the old connections, made a few calls.
“Welcome to the Arkham Detective Agency.”
FNG—Fucking New Guy—me.
“Happy to have you, but please keep your weapon in its holster. Arkham is not New York.” Nardi said. Didn’t add, as a New Yorker, I should know, but he thought it; New York was still his DNA. “You get in a New York state of mind, hell, hard not to from time to time … hits me every so often. You do, play Billy Joel or Old Blue Eyes, but keep it to yourself and count to a hundred. Enough shit goes on here; I don’t need the authorities jamming me up, too.”
First assignment: Is she, or isn’t she? Follow her and take pics. Forty-three-year-old Fucking New Guy starting at the fucking bottom. You hear there’s big money in porn, ain’t, not for my cinematographic shots.
No glamour in it. Sitting in the rain, deep in shadows, with my camera on a D-I-V-O-R-C-E stakeout. She ain’t no femme fatale, ain’t got the face for it, but he’s rich-ass-RICH and her pretty-fine ass is runnin’ ’round with a married man (who didn’t have the spouse sign a pre-nup).
SNAP! She’s on top.
SNAP! His fifty-two-year-old hands are full of her ample (her driver’s license and birth certificate said twenty-two).
SNAP! He’s behind her full of ZOOM.
SNAP! She’s going down on him.
SNAP! Exquisite pleasure.
SNAP! Any happier (or strained and drained) his ticker would ZAP and he’d be morgue-meat.
Got three rolls (color) of her killer body doin’ the wang dang doodle—and doin’ it and doin’ and doin’ it, with rich hubby’s law partner. Signed, sealed, evidentiary pictures say she sure as hell DID, divor
ce delivered.
Did good. Here’s your next assignment.
Nardi hands me another divorce gig.
I’ve heard other things go on at the Agency, but not for me, not now. Guess you have to work your way up to the juicy gigs … I’ll do the time and see what shakes out.
Arkham Detective Agency. Ho-fucking-hum, but it’s payin’ my bar-tab.
Arkham, Massachusetts. Ain’t New York—goddamn right it ain’t. Can’t get a good pie here. Can’t get real slaw or a real fucking pickle from Katz’s—don’t have the nerve to order a Ruben here in White Man’s Land. Music sucks here, too—I miss the midnight voodoo in the clubs back in the neighborhood. WASP women here all have moon tans; I’d kill to see some women with deep mahogany tans. Guess my sex life here is going to be zero, place is so white; I’m shocked Wonder Bread doesn’t have their home offices here.
Nardi wasn’t bullshitting. “Ain’t The City. Not by a long shot.”
Two blocks south of the business district in a zone dead (and poorly lit) after 8 p.m. Ginger’s 10-10 Lounge (Hollywood Motel across the street for those in need). Hack Neil Diamond wannabe, crooning Barry Manilow tunes and pop hits from the last twenty years. Fake plants (in need of dusting, or better yet, replacement). Watered-down drinks. Losers and bastards … and lonely/broken/fucked-up hearts hopin’ magic will find them sitting here waiting and in its radiant lantern-glow, Prince Right (honest—couldn’t lie, not to her, good in bed, likes to slow dance, would never forget the date of their anniversary and will take out the trash and not put his feet on the coffee table) will speak of Forever-hearts. Ginger’s 10-10 Lounge, decay around the edges, a pot of sleazy sitting on a slow-burn setting, preparing it for its upcoming role as Arkham’s newest dive bar. Not the kind of joint this woman frequents.
Bartender brings her drink to her table. His heart is a mountain of hungry; expression says it all, he’ll gladly close the place up and do her right here. Legs, cleavage, face, I would too, if I was into white women, but I’m not a fan of white on white, clashes. And white women just can’t run the voodoo down.
Another ain’t my scene walks in. Every female head in the joint turns when he sits down at her table. Well-tailored, his Armani ain’t off-the-rack. Tall. Well-built, moves like an assured panther confident in its apex status, and those magnetic eyes, they all want.
I smell trouble comin’ off of him. He’s got one face for the boardroom and six others for his sordid dealings. Liar Double-dealer Megalomaniac Thief. Few other things (before, during and after kissing or anything else he wanted to grab), too.
I was told they’re “involved sexually”: prove it. Don’t look like a-deep-affection-for or heart-thumping hanker to me. He’s trying to play her and if she’s fucking him, it’s only to play him. She’s the puppetmaster here. Seen the type. Saw what they leave in their wake; desiccated idiot that didn’t see doomsday launched. Annabelle “Cookie” Morganfield has power (siphoned from her husband’s old school New England old money and old social prominence family ties), had power (from her old school New England old money and six generations of social prominence family background), and wants more power. And she’s got a plan to reel it in and Mr. Rolex/Armani/hand-crafted Italian shoes is the bait.
He does not grab a drink. They leave.
I follow.
Old-school exclusive street in the very exclusive part of town. Three-story Victorian. Money keeps it properly trimmed and manicured. No real security. They say you find idiots everywhere; true, so true I’ve banked it for decades.
My camera is watching them sit in the library. Sitting. Talking, her, not him. Not drinking and sure not fucking or even getting ready to.
Lights go off.
Ten minutes later she comes out and gets in his Mercedes. Drives off. No leadfoot fleeing; moves along at a comfortable speed within the limits.
I follow.
She leaves his Benz two blocks from Ginger’s 10-10 Lounge and walks to her Benz. Gets in and drives home.
Next day, local news outlets say he’s tits-up. Not shot. Not knifed. Not strangled. Didn’t exit via natural causes. No blunt-force trauma. No forced entry. No fucking anything. Stone-cold homicide: ripped open, looks like a large mean-ass cat took him down and a pack of hyenas showed up to claim the kill.
Phone call to my war buddy tells me M.E. thinks he died around 10:30.
Makes her the last one to see him, or—
I file my report (with a few omissions). I’m told I’m done.
Week later, I get the case again. Annabelle “Cookie” Morganfield has a new beau. Also hear, this is the seventh time, and Arkham Detective Agency has been asked to discover if she is “involved sexually.”
She gets around sure enough, and her supposed fuck-buddies show up dead. But no one questions her. No speculation she was around when they got ended.
Fucking odd does not cover it.
Sat in my apartment and had a Crested Ten, a double, and a second. Cleaned my piece and my throw-away. Sharpened my boot knife. Made sure my cell was charging.
Settled back on my couch and read the Murder Book (eight M. E.’s reports I paid to have copied on the sly) I was assembling. Eight dead fat cats. All ripped up in their homes. No signs of robbery or a struggle. No witnesses.
How the fuck did the cops not see this? It was loud as bad weather on Sunday on the back nine at the Masters. If I played this right, might get me back to The City. Back to my perks—with a raise.
Each of the dead idiots had attended Miskatonic University, studied law or business, graduated and gone into daddy’s practice or company. Each had been a member of the all-male, secretive Labyrinth Society, Miskatonic University’s version of Yale’s Skulls and Bones.
I needed to know more about the Labyrinth Society.
Money, power, a secretive fraternity, and a femme fatale. Eight homicides and “Cookie” Morganfield’s the spider in the center of the web. I couldn’t wait to jump up and yell B-I-N-G-O and collect my winnings.
My New York state of mind was sitting in Ray’s (Original Ray’s) having a slice with the hottest Latina in The City.
Money. More please.
Freaky. With that back—Como usted quiere ser, Babé!
Yeah. King of New York, sippin’ Glenlivet 12, or Lagavulin 16, when the mood struck, and not this eight-bucks-a-bottle Crested Ten shit.
Miskatonic University online. Miskatonic University’s library. Tittle-tattle gossip. Whispers. Rumor. Ivy League. Names. Dates. History. A scandal or six. All-male, fraternity Labyrinth Society, founded in 1811; no presidents, five senators, four federal court appellate judges, one ambassador, assorted doctors, lawyers, and tycoons—all prominent WASPs, everyone from Arkham.
“Maybe worshipers of the Devil?” “Definitely into the occult.” “Just look at that emblem, sigil-thing, they have for their fraternity emblem. I heard it’s an Elizabethan cryptogram passed down from John Dee. He got it from Agrippa, and it’s older than any Arabic writings we have. If that don’t make them into the occult, I don’t know what does and if they are some occult league, they’re into the darkside. Why else be so guarded?” Tattle-tale chitchat. Whispers. Veiled hearsay. That’s all I had.
I needed access to other records. (Saw her, stalked her to orchestrate our meeting) Candice Anderson, from the admissions department; 36, spinster, white, on the plain side, glasses, brown and brown, meaty tits and a plump ass, hadn’t been on a date in 3 years. Under her plain clothes, Badge Bunny with the “blue flu”; had a thing for cops, old noir films, and P.I.s. Candice knew about me, she’d read about the New York shootout (in the POST, in the Times, the Boston Globe, everywhere she could), I was someone, an anti-hero type (in her mind) she thought got screwed by the system, someone she wanted to be with. Began dating her; meeting her for lunch (on a bench surrounded by flowers on the MU property) and after romantic dinners in corner booths, taking her to seedy bars (the Seahorse, Ginger’s 10-10 Lounge, Marty’s Indigo Room) for drinks and to excite her�
�did. Took twelve dates and three weeks to get her into her bed under the theatrical release poster for RKO and Mitchum’s Out of the Past; Robert Mitchum was her to-die-for (“You look a bit like him and you walk like he did. I’ve always dreamed of my … lover calling me Candy. Will you?”). Candy wasn’t your typical “blue flu” hoochie out chasing badges, but she loved the attention and fucking. After I let her hold my SIG P226 and she saw I had a backup piece, she got a pretty good freak on … for a white woman. One evening, while she was making a fresh pot of coffee, I peeled and sliced an apple with my boot knife. She really let her wanton out, had her skirt off and her blouse unbuttoned before I had a full woody—started with her painted mouth … you can guess the rest.
Friday night. Candy ordered what passes for a pie here—double shrooms and anchovies, bought a bottle of Glenlivet 12, and had a hefty-stack of copied files for me. I sat there in her flat surrounded by hardboiled books by David Goodis, Ellroy, Vachss, Lehane, Gil Brewer, Robert Campbell, Crais, Ken Bruen, Lawrence Block, and Spillane, Candy’s framed, noir film posters (everyone from a Mitchum movie) looking down at me, and read.
“Not much here.”
“I’m sorry, Andrew. What else I can do to help you?”
“I need everything I can find on the Labyrinth Society. Dirt. And who is a member. I have this odd feeling in my gut.”
She knew some, her files confirmed a few. Her father was a Miskatonic alumnus (that’s how she got her job) and had been invited to join, but he didn’t pass the fraternity initiation. Daddy was pretty closed-mouth about it, but she had suspicions, named the men she thought might have been members.
They were all dead. Unsolved homicides. I knew one of the names; he’d been with “Cookie” Morganfield the night he died.
Like the cops, Candy hadn’t made the connection, but she wasn’t there, didn’t know what I did.
“Do you know anything solid about the fraternity?”
Arkham Detective Agency: A Lovecraftian-Noir Tribute to C. J. Henderson Page 27