With a look of calm concentration, Lindbergh glared down at Proust's restrained form, “What is your purpose?”
* * *
“We found him like this, Doctor,” the Nurse explained, “He was laughing hysterically in the park across from the Police Station.”
“And you say he was alone in the town?” The Doctor questioned.
“Yes, Sir. They haven't found anyone yet. The Police are still investigating the scene,” Nurse Cerda replied.
“How very odd,” the Doctor stated, smoothing out his beard, “Why don't you give me a few minutes alone with him, Nurse.”
“Yes, Dr. Roberts,” she answered and left the room.
The Doctor picked up Proust's charts from the end of the bed and skimmed through them. He glanced up at the restraints that held Proust's arms and legs as a grin spread across his face, “So, Detective Proust,” he leaned in closer, “What is your purpose?”
Wide eyed, Proust snapped his attention to the Doctor and with a toothy smile replied, “Nyarlathotep...”
The End
Under the city of Dreaming Death Page 3