The Lovecraft Squad: Dreaming

by Stephen Jones

  “From a friend who says he found it in a dream.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

  Bobby shook his head. “No, director, it doesn’t, but there it is. I just wondered if it might have something to do with your Human Protection League. Or what is it the press sometimes calls it now—the Lovecraft Squad?”

  Hoover peered at Bobby, a withering stare that Bobby knew had been used in many interrogations over the decades. “Who did you get this from?”

  “It came from someone I believe. He told me about things he saw in this dream—big things that float, have a lot of eyes and arms. Sound familiar?”

  Hoover snorted. “Sounds insane.”

  Bobby reached across the desk and retrieved the stone; he was satisfied to see a split-second of disappointment cross Hoover’s face. “So do you want to tell me more about your secret bureau’s work?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything. Tell me about cases they’re working on right now.”

  Hoover started to rise. “I’ll have my secretary send you over some recent case files—”

  “Sit down, Hoover.” The forcefulness of Bobby’s tone shocked the director enough to cause him to hesitate, although he didn’t sit. “I want to hear it from you.”

  Hoover considered for a moment before responding, “You know, Mr. Attorney General, I’ve got a file on you too. It’s quite thick, in fact.”

  “None of us in the Kennedy family have ever claimed to be saints.”

  “Hmm. And speaking of people who aren’t likely to be canonized—our surveillance of Martin Luther King finally yielded something.”

  Bobby wanted to squirm. He wasn’t fond of Hoover’s obsession with the charismatic civil rights leader, but Hoover had painted a convincing portrait of King as an ambitious rabble-rouser who surrounded himself with communists. “What did we get? Is he in a red sea?”

  “No, but this could be potentially more useful—we believe King may be having illicit sexual encounters with women who are not his wife.”

  “How is that more useful?”

  “Think about it: King’s a preacher. Can you imagine what it would do to his reputation if word got out that he was breaking one of the Ten Commandments?”

  Bobby tasted something sour; for a second he wanted to spit, but instead he swallowed it down. “Director, with all due respect—if you’ve got no proof that King’s a communist, then maybe we need to just walk away from him.”

  “Mr. Kennedy, your brother was quite clear on believing that the president should be leading the way on civil rights, not some Southern preacher. If you don’t want to make that happen, then I will.”

  With that, Hoover turned to go. On his way out, he paused near Brumus, eyeing the huge sleeping Newfie critically. “I hope whatever I smell over here isn’t something your dog did to that rug, because that would be destruction of public property.”

  Hoover walked out. Bobby let him go, but made a mental note to leave Brumus at home from now on.

  III

  Elwood was in his favorite booth at Tony’s, savoring the first bite of his Friday night pepperoni pizza as he eyed the cheerful Halloween decorations. Crêpe paper pumpkins and black cats arced between lighting fixtures overhead, while the walls sported cardboard cutouts of cartoonish witches and bats.

  Elwood had a fleeting sniff of pleasant nostalgia (wearing a homemade skeleton costume out to beg treats from the neighbors) that was swiftly replaced by melancholy—in the HPL, Halloween was anything but playful. This year in particular, the League’s agents—including Elwood—had a sinister sense of something gearing up, something they couldn’t quite name but could feel in every atom. The festival seemed to be celebrated not just by both modern and ancient revelers, but by human and non-human as well, across the Dreamscape. Today was October 25, leaving Elwood with a sense of dread about what the next six days would bring.

  A drunken woman and her male companion staggered past his table, hitting it hard enough with one hip to make him grab his bottle of Pabst before it toppled. The woman apologized and laughed as the man caught her from behind, hugging her. The man was dressed as a pirate, the woman as a nurse; the pirate made some joke about his timbers being shivered before they both stumbled away again. Elwood watched them go with a mix of irritation and envy.

  At thirty-five, he was sitting in a pizzeria alone on a Friday night. No wife awaited him at home; he wasn’t on his way to meet up with a girlfriend. His living room floor wouldn’t be cluttered with toys, his sleep interrupted with cries or someone calling his name. He’d had girlfriends, sure; one—Elaine—had even lasted for a year, before she’d started to complain that his work meant more to him than she did. O’Hara would sometimes show up (late) at work with circles under his eyes because he’d been up with a baby the night before, or juggling finances to pay for a new swing set, but Elwood still wondered if he did enough good in the world as a member of the Lovecraft Squad to equal how much of his own life he’d given up.

  That was when a man slid into the booth across from him. The man had on a cap pulled low over his eyes and sunglasses, even though it was after 8:00 P.M. Elwood stared for a second, the slice still held in midair, until the man asked, “Special Agent Frank Elwood?”

  There was no mistaking the voice—Elwood had heard that distinctive Massachusetts accent and that youthful timbre on the radio and television plenty of times. He lowered the pizza, trying to peer past the dark glasses. “Well, technically, it’s Special Agent Frank Elwood Junior . . .”

  Robert Kennedy removed the glasses and grinned. “My mistake. Of course.” He extended a hand. “Robert Kennedy.”

  Elwood accepted the hand, too stunned to do otherwise. “Sure, uh . . . Mr. Attorney General. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Bobby leaned in, closer. “How are things these days in the Lovecraft Squad?”

  “Don’t you know? I mean, I’d expect you to be better briefed on all the different cases than I am. I only know my own files.”

  “To tell you the truth, Agent Elwood, Hoover doesn’t let me in on much about the HPL.”

  Elwood leaned back against the high wooden booth behind him, glad for the protection the solid dividers offered against any prying eyes or ears. With Hoover in charge, you could never be too sure.

  Bobby continued, “In point of fact, Hoover doesn’t tell me anything about the HPL. I’m not even sure what it is you fellas really do.”

  Elwood pushed the pizza to the side, his hunger forgotten. “How can I help you, Mr. Kennedy?”

  “I’ve read your personnel profile. I think you’re a good, solid agent, a man who believes in what he’s doing. Am I right?”

  Elwood guffawed. “Well, I’m sure not in it for the money or the comfort.”

  Bobby smiled, pushed the cap up slightly but didn’t remove it. “I know about you and your father, I know that you don’t always trust Hoover any more than I do, and I know that you’d like to do the right thing. Frank, I need someone to tell me what’s really going on down there, in those subterranean corridors.”

  “You want me to spy on the HPL?”

  Bobby shook his head, waving a hand. “No, nothing like spying. I just want to know what you’re working on. You can’t spy on yourself, can you?”

  “So you really don’t know about the Human Protection League, about what we’re fighting?”

  “I’m guessing it’s not communism or organized crime. That really is about as much as I know.”

  Elwood took a deep breath, mulled it over, and then said, “Are you familiar with a writer named H. P. Lovecraft?”

  Bobby shook his head. “Can’t say that I am. Sounds like somebody who writes ladies’ romance novels.”

  Elwood snorted. “Far from it. In some literary circles, he’s regarded as a moderately interesting writer of horror fiction. But in the Human Protection League, we know that he really wrote about facts.”

  “What kind of facts?”

  “Th
at before mankind appeared, the Earth belonged to a race of Elder Gods. Something happened when we came on the scene and they were pushed back to the dimensions they originally came from, but they’re always looking for ways to invade our world because they want it back. One of the main ones is called Cthulhu, and it’s said that he’s asleep somewhere in a city beneath the sea.”

  Bobby stared in disbelief for a second before blurting out: “This is real?”

  Elwood grinned, unbuttoned a cuff, rolled up his sleeve to reveal a series of two-inch-wide bruises, each roughly circular and maybe an inch from the next, running the length of his arm. “I got these from something that came up out of a sewer two weeks ago in a place called Dunwich; it’s probably lucky that I didn’t see the rest of whatever was attached to that appendage. We call the enemy the Armies of the Night. There are humans working with them—trying to open the gates for them to return—the most dangerous being a hermetic society called the Olde Fellowes. They’re well organized and equipped, although they don’t always need guns. They’ve even got their own versions of tanks, things called shoggoths that are the size of railroad cars. I encountered one of those for the first time last night.”

  Bobby held Elwood’s arm and turned it to the light, examining it carefully before falling back against the booth as he exhaled sharply. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

  Rolling his sleeve back down, Elwood said, “There are worse things too. And some of these things, have . . . well, sir, not to put too fine a point on it, but over the centuries they’ve inter-bred with human beings. We’ve tracked and raided whole communities of them—there’s one on the East Coast called Innsmouth—”

  “Innsmouth,” Bobby interrupted. “I’ve seen that name. Didn’t we conduct a gambling raid there just a few years back?”

  “Well, that was the cover. There was no gambling in Innsmouth. It was an extermination mission. And not the first one.”

  Reaching into a pocket, Bobby removed a small item wrapped in a handkerchief. He opened it to reveal the green stone he’d taken from Jack. “Ever seen anything like this?”

  Elwood took the stone, held it up before his eyes and nodded. “Sure, we see this all the time—they make statues and icons from it that they use in rituals. Our scientists say it’s a type of rock that doesn’t naturally occur on Earth.”

  “Would Hoover know about this?”

  “I can’t see how he wouldn’t, Director Brady usually keeps him briefed.”

  As he re-pocketed the stone, Bobby said, “That’s what I needed to know. Thank you, Agent Elwood, you’ve been very helpful.” Bobby pulled out his wallet, extracted some bills, and placed them on the table. “Let me pay for your pizza.”

  There were five one-hundred-dollar bills on the scratched surface.

  Elwood considered for a beat before sliding the c-notes back to the attorney general. “That’s very kind of you, sir, but I do make enough to afford a pizza.”

  Bobby re-pocketed the money. “I knew I’d chosen the right man.” He slid out of the booth, stood, held out a card that was blank except for a phone number. “Thank you, Agent Elwood. You can contact me any time at that number—it’s completely secure.”

  For an instant, Elwood had an urge to deny the card, to just get up and walk out. If he took it, was he being disloyal to Brady? To Hoover? But somehow his gut instinct was to trust Kennedy more than either of them, so he accepted the card and shook the attorney general’s hand. “I will, sir.”

  Bobby glanced at the restaurant’s holiday decorations, and, with a knowing half-smile, said to Elwood, “Oh, and happy Halloween.”

  After Kennedy left, Elwood returned to the pizza. It was cold by now, but he ate it anyway. After all, he thought, never know which pizza might be your last. Trick or treat.

  IV

  It was the morning of Wednesday, October 30, when Elwood found the memo on his desk from FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover. His throat went dry when he read it.

  Date: October 30, 1963

  To: All agents, Human Protection League

  From: John Edgar Hoover, FBI Director

  Subject: SECURITY BREACHES

  Please be reminded that all activities of the Human Protection League are considered strictly confidential. Only persons in the immediate employ of the HPL are exempt from this prohibition. Persons in the Federal Bureau of Investigation outside of the HPL, the Department of Justice, or any other arm of the United States government may not be apprised of any activities of the HPL unless prior authorization is received from Director Brady or myself. Any agent of the HPL who is discovered to be conveying any knowledge of the League’s activities to any person or agency outside of the League will be subject to the maximum penalties under the law, including but not limited to arrest and trial for treason.

  The sweat on Elwood’s skin was abruptly chilled as his body temperature dropped. Did Hoover know something about his meeting with Kennedy? Was it possible that all HPL agents were followed without their knowing? Or was Tony’s bugged? Was everywhere in Washington under surveillance?

  Elwood’s desk phone rang. He picked it up and heard a familiar voice on the other end—Hoover’s secretary. The FBI director wanted to see him in his office, as soon as possible.

  He hung up, rose from behind his desk, and swallowed back his unease. The two things—the memo and the phone call—could be completely unrelated. And it wasn’t as if he’d promised Kennedy anything. Still, he was glad that he’d gone home after that meeting, memorized the number on the card, and burned it in his kitchen sink.

  Elwood arrived a half hour later at Hoover’s office. He was admitted promptly. The director was cordial and polite, offering him a seat. Hoover’s smooth façade gave nothing away.

  After Elwood was seated, Hoover picked up a few typed sheets of onion skin paper. “Agent Elwood, I’d like to ask you a few questions about this report you filed with Director Brady last week . . .”

  Elwood tried to keep his face impassive as relief flooded his system. “Certainly, sir.”

  “You say you saw the Witch House, and a large tower . . .”

  “Yes, sir. Quite clearly.”

  Hoover scanned the report again before speaking. “Was there anything at all insubstantial about either? Or did they seem completely real?”

  “Quite real, sir. I was struck especially by how a sort of low-lying fog seemed to surround the structures, rather than being visible through them.”

  The director nodded before asking, “So would you say that it was as if some other reality had intruded, or that you were glimpsing it through a hole in our reality?”

  “Yes, that sounds like a fair description.”

  “And this man you mention . . .”

  “The man on top of the tower?” Elwood asked. “I’m afraid he was too far off for me to see clearly.”

  “I understand that, Agent Elwood. But I want to know your opinion of what you thought he was doing. You describe a very curious and somewhat unprecedented encounter between this man and a shoggoth. Did they seem to be . . . colluding?”

  Something roiled in Elwood’s gut. This was all wrong. “No, sir, I wouldn’t say that—”

  Hoover cut him off. “How can you be sure, agent? You said it was a considerable distance from you.”

  “It was, but I . . .” Elwood trailed off, realizing he could not in fact be sure about what he’d seen. “I suppose it’s possible, sir.”

  “Agent Elwood, you’re a valuable agent with a fine future in the HPL, so I want to level with you: you’re not the first to glimpse this man apparently conversing with the Armies of the Night. Like you, no one has yet been close enough to identify the man, but I believe he should be considered an extreme risk and we need to assign a top priority to identifying him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How’s that new agent doing—Jefferson?”

  There was something in Hoover’s voice and abrupt change of subject that Elwood didn’t like—almost a verbal sneer as
he said the agent’s name. Elwood suspected that Hoover had a distinct preference for Caucasian agents—he stopped just short of mentally labeling the director as a racist—and he thought he could hear just a hint of that now.

  “Herbert Jefferson is in all ways an exemplary agent. He’s smart, hard-working, cautious . . . I recommend him very highly.”

  “You say he’s cautious . . . in what ways?”

  Did Hoover suspect Jefferson of being a security breach? Was that what this morning’s note had really been about? “I’d trust him with my life, sir. He values security protocol and practices it with great care.”

  “Good.” Hoover leaned back, peering at Elwood. “Director Brady and I have got a new assignment we want you to take charge on: We’ve had reports of recent Esoteric Order of Dagon activity in the warehouse district of Arkham. We’ve tracked a number of former Innsmouth residents to that area—they fled there after our most recent raid on Innsmouth three years ago. We think they like that area because it’s old and decayed, so it reminds them of their hometown. We want you to put a team together, provision all the arms and equipment you’ll need, and head out there right away to see if they’re up to something. If they are, you have full discretionary powers to terminate all such activities. Am I clear, Agent Elwood?”

  “Crystal, sir.”

  “Remember that tomorrow is the 31st, and it’s more than a day for children to dress up and demand candy—to the Old Ones’ sympathizers all over the world it’s a major night for rituals, so that’s what you’ll be mostly looking for. Oh, and you might consult Agent Carter’s Dream Division before you set up your team—they’ve been giving us some interesting feedback lately from the Dreamscape. Let’s just say it corroborates everything in your report.”

  Elwood stifled a wince at the mention of Randolph Carter. He didn’t like the dreamer one bit, even while he acknowledged Carter’s importance to their work. He’d only had one previous meeting with Carter, which had taken place in the HPL’s research laboratory, darkened almost to the point of invisibility; he’d only just been able to make out Carter’s long gloved hands and misshapen body. But the voice—high like a child’s, but with the scarred gruffness of a very old man—had left him instinctively wanting to flee the room. He didn’t care how much Carter had endured or what he contributed to the League—he just wanted to avoid him at all costs.