Pyrate Cthulhu: Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos, Volume 1 (4.0)

by David Conyers

  “Never work,” said Theresa. “First thing I thought of, so I made inquiries. Turns out they only let you use the Necco . .. Neconimo ... whatever the hell it’s called, if you’re internationally well-known in your field and they’ve got you on some kind of list. And even then they set you up with two special guards and one librarian standing watch over you while you work. No chance to make a switch, even if you’ve got a copy to switch — the thing’s distinctive-looking.”

  “We could make a copy,” mused Willem. “Polish Rob is real good at that kind of shit — you’ve seen his work.”

  “He’s real good at driver’s licenses,” said Trent. “This might be a little much for him.”

  “No, really,” insisted Willem. “One time, he made an imitation Shakespeare first folio for some guy from New York wanted to switch it out with the one at Yale.”

  “What happened?” asked Buddy, interested.

  “Didn’t work out,” said Willem, sipping a 7-Up. “Guy made some bonehead mistake, pretended to be a professor from Wales or somewhere, and ran into a Welsh librarian who wanted to talk with him. Far as I know, he’s still in jail in New Haven. But the forgery sure looked good.”

  “Amateurs,” muttered Trent. “Goddammit, though -how are we going to do this thing?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Buddy. They all looked at him.

  “We’re not going to use machine guns,” said Theresa. “We’re not going to take hostages or kidnap the librarian’s wife and kids...

  “Hey,” said Buddy, wounded, “what kind of guy do you think I am? I’m a gentleman burglar!”

  “You’re a semi-civilized thug,” said Theresa. “But that’s okay — we love you anyway. What’s your idea?”

  ***

  An hour later, Trent nodded.

  “That might work,” he said. “But we’ve got a lot of stuff to set up. Theresa, can you get hold of the Brunos and get what we need?”

  “Easy,” she said. “I imagine this’ll be right up their alley. They grew up in the construction business, you know.”

  “I’m amazed they grew up at all,” said Trent. “New Jersey wise-guys don’t usually last that long. Willem, call Polish Rob. Bring him all the pictures we have of the book. Buddy, I’m gonna need you to do the research on the cops — find out when they patrol and where, give us the biggest window we can get when this goes down.”

  “And me?” asked Mike.

  “You’re the point-man,” smiled Trent. “You’re the only one hasn’t been on campus, so they won’t have your picture.”

  “Great,” said Mike, grimacing. “How about you?”

  “I’ve got a little more research to do,” said Trent, “and I’ve got to use the school library to do it.”

  ***

  October 24 — a full week before the deadline Bowen had set — was a bright, crisp day in Arkham. It had rained the night before and the cobbled paths in the quad still shone wetly, water slowly dripped from the maples and elms onto the carpet of leaves beneath, and students wore wool jackets and gloves on their way to class.

  Richard LePlante, head librarian at Miskatonic’s Curwen Rare Books Library spent a few moments talking with the guards on duty before his shift started, the three of them drinking coffee he’d brought from the Starbucks at the Student Union. They chatted about inconsequential things as the first few research students of the day entered, went through the check-in procedure and the metal detector and began negotiating with the assistant librarians for access to their thesis materials. LePlante finished his chat, nodded at the door guards and went to his office.

  It was quiet for the first half-hour, and he got a fair amount of work done on his correspondence — Professor El-Ibrahim from Cairo University wanted to stop by on his visit to Harvard and look at the cuneiform holdings, and a team of archaeological researchers digging in Arizona wanted him to check a few strange coincidences they had discovered in the Native artifacts they had dug up — he responded in the affirmative to the Egyptian, made a note to look up the symbols for the diggers, then sighed and reached for the stack of acquisition forms. He hated this part of the job — acquiring new works, vitally important though it was, kept him from dealing with the already-rich collection they had, and he wished he could delegate the buying decisions to someone else. But the trustees counted on his judgment and his alone, so he was forced to wade through catalogs of ancient books every week, searching for gems...

  “If it were done when ‘tis done,” he sighed, “then ‘twere well it were done quickly.” Shakespeare was his passion, and his frequent use of the Bard’s quotations often annoyed his wife — but in the solitude of his office, he let fly.

  But today, just as he took the top sheet of paper from the stack his secretary had left for him, all thoughts of classical language and iambic pentameter were driven from his head.

  The sound was so loud and sudden, so explosive, that LePlante’s first thought was that a gas line had blown and that the ceiling was coming down. He dove for the floor under his desk and squinched his eyes shut, waiting for the masonry to crush him like a roach.

  More grinding, rumbling sounds, and he realized they were coming from outside his office, from somewhere back in the stacks.

  From the rare book area.

  He got to his feet, papers flying everywhere, and sprinted for the door. He threw it wide, darted out into the hall where students were milling in panic and confusion, and looked back through the main room — where a cloud of stone dust billowed through the stacks and carrels from the rear of the building.

  “Oh, shit,” he said, and started running. The guards from the front door followed, and they sped past the small knots of seniors and grad students toward the Rare Book Room.

  As they did, the alarms started, wailing like banshees in the cavernous library.

  ***

  The bulldozer had worked just fine, Mike Mulligan thought as he unbuckled himself and watched as light poured into the dark room through the hole he’d knocked in the wall. The gas was already starting to billow into the chamber and he again checked the seals on his mask and goggles, nervously wondering how powerful the stuff was — it couldn’t be too powerful, he reassured himself; otherwise, it would damage the books it was supposed to protect.

  The steel gate had dropped instantly as he’d breached the wall, but he could sense motion from beyond it as he hopped to the ground, avoiding chunks of broken stone and masonry. That would be the library guards, and it would take them a moment or two to figure out that they’d have to go around.

  Mike reached back up into the cab of the ‘dozer and grabbed the sledgehammer. He waded through the cloud of dust and smoke, raised the thing and swung it as hard as he could at the glass case in the center of the room, thankfully undamaged by the flying, falling hunks of marble and granite.

  The glass shattered and he dropped the hammer, conscious of the red beams of the security system shining through the haze, playing across him. He reached in, grabbed the book and shoved it into his jacket. Then, not even looking at the men screaming at him through the bars of the security door, he picked his way back outside.

  Where two cops waited, guns drawn and aimed at him.

  City cops.

  ***

  “Thank God,” said LePlante, huffing and wheezing from his sprint through and around the building. “Where’s the book?”

  “It’s safe, sir,” said the older cop. “We’re bagging it and the other one for evidence, and we’ll take it over to the station ...”

  “Other one?” LePlante asked, confused. “What else did he take?” “Just the big one from the glass case, sir,” said Officer — LePlante squinted through the haze at the man’s badge — Officer Robie. “But he had a duplicate on him. Probably meant to drop it somewhere, slow down the pursuit.”

  “How was he going to get away?” asked the librarian, frantically looking around at the scene. The cops had already shoved the would-be thief into the back of the Arkham PD pat
rol car, and it looked as though they hadn’t been gentle about it; the man was bleeding from a wound on his scalp and struggling frantically to get out of his cuffs. The other officer was gently shoving both copies of the Necronomicon into large plastic bags near the hood of the car.

  “We got a witness says a sports car parked about a hundred yards that way” he gestured with his pen down the access road “tore off as soon as they saw us. Had a good-looking woman driving…”

  “Oh my God,” said LePlante. “There was a blond woman here a couple of days ago, asking to be allowed to examine the book...”

  “Good thing you didn’t let her,” said the cop, smiling. “I guess they figured, they couldn’t do it the easy way, they’d just try a little harder.” “You can’t take the book, Officer,” said LePlante, turning his attention back to the policeman. “It’s fragile, it’s been through physical trauma today and it’s valuable beyond belief. It must stay here.”

  “It’s evidence, sir -sorry,” said the cop, still writing in his notebook. “Don’t worry -we’ll take care of it for you and you’ll get it back just like it is now ...”

  “Officer,” LePlante said, drawing himself up and staring at the man with the full authority he was capable of, “I understand your rules, but they simply cannot be allowed to apply in this situation. This is a serious attempt at theft, and for all I know you’re part of the team of burglars.”

  Officer Robie looked at LePlante and frowned. “Sir, I’m gonna forgive your slur on my professionalism and that of my partner. I’m gonna put aside for the moment that I’ve been protecting this burg for fifteen years and I’ve been decorated for bravery twice, because there’s no way for you to know all that. But what I’m not gonna do is let some pantywaist librarian dictate police policy to me.”

  LePlante took a step back, feeling the sheer anger of the cop radiate through his bulky body, though his voice and manner remained outwardly placid and professional - he felt as if he were confronting a wolf in human guise. But he refused to give in to his atavistic fear, and instead forced himself to respond firmly and forcefully.

  “Regardless,” he said, his voice steady, “you cannot be allowed to take that book. I want to talk to your superior - hell, I want to talk to the chief.” And he began moving toward the other cop, who was just beginning to open the door of the squad car and put the plastic-wrapped books into the front seat.

  “I’ll take those,” said LePlante, holding out his hands expectantly and hugely grateful that a crowd of people had gathered, undergraduates mixing with professors and grad students, and that the two security officers from the library had followed him and stood just feet away, hands resting lightly on their pistols.

  The cop with the books — Officer Raffles, according to his badge — looked at his partner quizzically.

  “Guy wants to talk to the chief about avoiding procedure,” said the first cop. “Doesn’t want us to take the books.”

  “Well, tough shit,” said the second policeman. “I don’t particularly want to argue about it. Regs say that...

  “Oh, Christ,” said Robie, looking around. “We got people filming us.” They all looked around and, indeed, a couple of the students had brought out digital cameras and were recording the scene.

  “Remember Rodney King, Officer,” said LePlante a bit smugly. That was probably a bit unfair, considering these guys weren’t beating on him with their nightsticks — but boy, did they look like they wanted to.

  And now the security guards were getting into it. “Say,” said one of them, hand still on his gun. “Why don’t we just put the books aside for a few minutes and call up the Chief of Police. He can come down here, we can call up the University’s lawyers, maybe come up with some kind of compromise ...”

  “Why don’t the rent-a-cops just shut their fucking pieholes and let the professionals do their job?” snarled the first cop. You could tell — he wanted to reach for his own pistol — but then he looked around again, saw the students with their cameras again, and shook his head. “Aw, fuck it. Give these assholes the books, Charlie.”

  “You sure, John?” asked the other cop, confused. “I mean — regulations say…

  “Go ahead,” said Robie. “We got more important things to do, anyway, like getting this scumbag in the back to the station.”

  The other policeman shrugged and handed LePlante the books, both of them sealed in plastic.

  “Now,” said LePlante, “let’s call the chief...”

  “You call the chief,” said the big cop, scowling. “We’re outta here.”

  “Oh no,” said the security guard. “I think we should all just wait around for a while…”

  But instantly, quick as cats, both cops — fake cops — dove into the car. While the security guard hastily yanked out his firearm, the cruiser started up with a roar as the engine caught, and in less than a second it dashed onto the road, tires squealing.

  The guard managed to get a couple shots off, missing completely with the first one but shattering the rear windshield with his second, and then the car was gone, disappearing into the woods as the road curved.

  “Goddammit!” roared the security guard. “Ralph, get 911 right now/”

  “On it,” said the other, reaching for his cell phone.

  LePlante stood for a moment in shock, the weight of the Necronomicon and its double heavy in his hands, watching as the guards sprang into action, feeling a sense of relief spread through him.

  They had failed. It had been a complicated, devious plan, but the thieves had failed.

  He staggered back inside through the hole in the wall and set the package down, waving slightly to dissipate whatever gas was still in the air. He spent thirty seconds ripping open the tape on the bag, then with trembling hands drew out the first book. It looked like the Necronomicon, with the ancient hide cover, but when he cautiously opened it he was faced with blank pages.

  So he took out the other one.

  ***

  “Guy had guts,” said Buddy, removing the plugs from his cheeks, ripping off the false mustache.

  “Yeah,” said Willem, stretching, leaving on the toupee for the moment. They walked briskly away from the damaged police car toward the panel truck Theresa had stashed for them in the copse of trees. They both wished she could be driving — the woman was flat-out the best wheelman they’d ever come across in their lifetimes of larceny — but she’d been busy setting up a fire in an abandoned building way the hell on the other side of town that would keep the patrol cops busy while they pulled off their heist.

  “And the Pole did a good job on the books,” said Buddy, casually reaching in to his cop jacket and pulling out the real Necronomicon, sliding it onto the dash of the truck while he climbed in. “A hell of a job in just a couple days.”

  “I told you he was good,” said Willem. “Expensive, but good.”

  “I hope the old man’s not counting on us paying for all this shit out of our take,” grumbled Buddy. “The bulldozer, this truck, the cop car, the uniforms and the copies of the book — they should all go on expenses.”

  “I’m with you pal,” said Mike, coming out of the bushes where he’d thrown the gas mask, his latex gloves, the goggles and the clothes he’d worn for the job. “But let’s talk about it on the road, huh? They’ll set up roadblocks real soon.”

  “They’ve got fifteen cops in this town,” said Buddy, scornful. “And thirty roads out. Theresa’s got us maps, and we’ll be just fine.”

  “Just saying,” said Mike, sliding into the seat. “You gonna leave the book up there?”

  “Naw,” said Buddy. “Throw it in the glove box.”

  ***

  “Welcome back, Mr. Trent,” said Bowen. “And congratulations.” “Thank you,” said Trent, the bulky box in his hands. “You got our money?”

  “Is that the book?”

  “Money first,” said the thief. He looked out the window, saw the shapes of his team and the gigantic forms of Bowen’s bodyguard
s out there, silently waiting for the business to be concluded. Watching the frogs, maybe.

  “Show me the book first,” commanded Bowen.

  “I flipped through it,” said Trent, beginning to fiddle with the latches on the lead box. “Some creepy stuff in there, man. I’ve been having nightmares all week.”

  “The uninitiated should not view the work of the Arab,” whispered Bowen, his eyes avidly watching Trent’s hands. “It can be... dangerous.”

  “That’s what I hear,” said Trent. “But I imagine you won’t have any problems with it, will you? All these spells and incantations and such — I bet they’re right up your alley.”

  “Hurry, man,” urged Bowen. His hunger, his need for the Necronomicon was almost palpable.

  Trent stopped what he was doing for a moment, looked over at the older man. “So why do you need the book by tomorrow, Mr. Bowen? Something important going on on Halloween night?”

  “That is none of your concern, Mr. Trent,” said Bowen.

  “I did a little research,” said Trent, ignoring the older man. “See, I was wondering a couple of things about this whole mess. First of all, how had you found me in the first place? That little trap you set, with the Waterston cameo, was brilliant, and you knew I’d come for it. But how?”

  “Psychology,” said Bowen, smiling thinly.

  “I don’t think so,” said Trent. “It’s more like you’d been watching me, watching my methods and techniques. But that’s impossible.”, “Obviously it wasn’t,” said Bowen. “Like I told you before — I have resources the police don’t have ...”

  “And when I broke in here, you somehow managed to sneak into the room while I was working and plant yourself in that chair, there,” continued Trent. “Which is also impossible. There’s no — I repeat, no- way you could’ve done that without me hearing or sensing you.”

  “So how did I do it?” asked Bowen.

  “Magic,” said Trent.

  The two men looked at each other for a moment, then Bowen smiled again, a toothy smile full of menace.

  “Magic,” he repeated.

  “Yep,” said Trent, beginning again to fool with the latches on the big leaden box. “Magic. I’m kind of a hard-edged realist, Mr. Bowen, but I’m not stupid. If I have to accept that magic exists, I’ll do so. And the more I looked at the Necronomicon, the more I realized that, yeah, this stuff might be for real.”