I opened one of the files, as much to ground myself as anything, and turned on the dome light. The stack of papers on top all bore the same name and logo: THE PARALLAX CORPORATION.
I couldn’t suppress another shudder, and that Rooks noticed. He held out the flask, as he’d done a dozen or more times since that first meeting, but this time, I surprised us both. Normally, I don’t touch the stuff, because super-strength and alcohol don’t mix. But this time I swallowed something foul and fiery and nearly puked it back up, but it stayed down and for once, I was the better for it.
“You ever feel like you’re being watched?” I said to Rooks.
“All the time,” he said.
We didn’t say anything else after that. We just stared at the road swallowed by the dark just past the headlights, and I for one wished we could just stay like that, in that limbo where I felt a little bit safe for a little while, and that the sun would never come up.
III
“So, which one are you again?”
We were sitting in a chichi waterfront restaurant, me and The Washington Post reporter. He wore a fat striped tie, badly needed a haircut, and couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. The balls on this kid, going after the president of the United States. We had that much in common, at least.
“Bernstein. The Jewish one. My partner’s the WASP Republican.” He vigorously stubbed out his cigarette, as if to emphasize the Republican part.
“So you really think this is a story? This Watergate thing?”
He looked around carefully.
I leaned forward, my voice low. “We weren’t followed. I do this for a living, remember?”
He gazed at me for a moment. I knew the look, I’d seen it on the faces of a hundred informants. He was trying to decide whether I was to be trusted.
“We’ve been told our lives may be in danger.” He sipped at his drink, the ice cubes rattling slightly in the glass.
I flashed back to the HoJo’s parking lot, to the man with car trouble hunched whistling over his engine, the raised hood masking his face until it was almost too late. The brief moment of recognition as he looked up and I remembered the last time I’d seen him—dressed in a workman’s overalls on Hoover’s front porch. The silenced revolver in his hand. The speed with which Agent Springer had moved, the wet tearing sound his gun arm made as she tore it from its socket.
Five million dollars they spent rebuilding her. That made her worth roughly 250 times what I was to the League. Way to make a guy feel small.
I gave him a thin smile. “Yeah, I know a little bit about that.”
He filched another of my cigarettes, apparently trying to chain-smoke his way to an early grave before They put him there. “Who the hell are you, anyway? FBI, but not FBI? I never heard of this . . . what did you say it was called again?”
“We’re sort of a . . . special task force.”
“Investigating Watergate?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure yet. I don’t think it has anything to do with the break-in, but I’m kinda stumbling around in the dark here.”
I felt a prickling at the back of my neck, like I was being watched. I resisted the urge to turn around. Bernstein was squirrelly enough already, and I needed him to trust that I had this under control. Besides, I had my back to the river, so unless they were sending scuba divers after us now, I figured we were safe. But that’s paranoia for you—more contagious than the common cold once it starts spreading.
I pushed the feeling away with another belt of booze. “Watergate suggest anything else to you? Beyond the complex, I mean.”
Bernstein smiled. “Not too big on your local history, are you?”
“Truth be told, I’m doing well if I can remember what happened last night.”
He gestured upriver. “There’s an old wooden gate marking the point where the Potomac met the old canal. Not too far from the complex. That’s the original watergate.”
“Not much to go on.”
He shrugged. “You asked.”
I sighed, and raised my glass to my lips. Reflected in the curvature of its surface, I thought I saw a face somewhere behind me, watching from the river. Features rendered blurred and indistinct by the condensation on the glass, a face that almost seemed to be formed from the water itself, its skin the same grayish-green as the Potomac. Eyes as black and inexpressive as a doll’s.
This time I jerked around in my seat, my hand instinctively moving toward my gun. The river flowed onward before me, its surface unbroken, any secrets it held carried swiftly away out of sight.
Bernstein sat up in his chair. “What is it?”
“Nothing. A trick of the light.”
He wasn’t so green a journalist that he didn’t realize I was lying for all I was worth.
Outside the restaurant, I shook his hand. “Good luck with your story, Mr. Bernstein.”
“Likewise. I hope you find your water gate.”
I turned to leave, then thought of something. “Hey, you ever hear of a company called Parallax? They anything to do with this break-in business, maybe?”
He looked at me blankly. “News to me if they are. What do they do?”
I considered the question. “A little auto repair. A little plumbing.”
A curious expression crept across his face. “Plumbing? What do you know about that?”
Now it was my turn to look blank. He moved closer, careful not to be overheard. “Nixon has a covert Special Investigations Unit. They call themselves the Plumbers. Run by a guy named Liddy. Don’t mess with him, is my advice.”
He hurried away. I stared back at the river, wondering what the hell any of this meant. My eyes wandered over to a nearby pay phone. Springer was busy trying to track down our bugger, but one thing was for sure: If I was going to take a walk upriver, I wanted a few million of the government’s bucks covering my back.
She stared down at the rotting wooden structure jutting above the surface of the river, the Watergate Hotel looming up in the distance behind us. “This is what we’re supposed to be looking for?”
“It’s where the complex got its name. Maybe this is where Hoover’s agent was supposed to meet with his secret informant. What do you want from me, Springer?”
“I’m starting to think you old HPL guys don’t know a conspiracy from a coincidence.”
“Look, if you’ve got any better ideas, I’d sure love to—”
Her eyes glanced over my shoulder and widened. I whirled around, drawing my sidearm before I even drew a breath.
It slithered onto the riverbank, its wet skin glistening like an infected wound. The air immediately grew thick with its reek. I remembered seeing a beached whale rotting on the sand while on vacation as a child, its thick skin burst and leaking. This smelled the same, and suddenly I felt all of twelve years old again.
Springer gasped, her gorge rising. “What the hell is it?”
I knew only too well what it was—and it was as sure as shit no Deep Throat, although at least half that name described it. I’d first seen one while floating in the Pacific Ocean twenty-seven years ago, surrounded by the wreckage of the U.S.S Indianapolis. And I hadn’t survived the ensuing decades of nightmares and alcoholism to fall prey to another one now.
The Deep One opened its maw, a moist gurgle escaping its throat. I raised my weapon, ready to shoot.
“No!” Springer’s hand closed around my wrist and twisted, sending my shot wide. I should at least be grateful that she knows her own strength and I merely ended up flat on my ass rather than minus one arm. I gaped up at her in winded disbelief.
“Listen. It’s trying to say something.”
Just like a goddamn woman. She wanted to be its friend.
As far as we could make out, the creature claimed its name was Olmstead . . . or had been anyway, forty or so years ago, back when it was still human. Its vocal cords had mutated to the point where everyday speech was difficult, but you could see the thing desperately trying to hold on to the vestiges of
the man it once was. It insisted it wanted to help us.
Springer asked it about Watergate and got nothing, but when I mentioned Nixon, it hissed in anger and unleashed a wet stew of invective. Best I could figure, it seemed to think our president was an affront to his office, a disgrace to the country Olmstead had once loved.
Wouldn’t you know it? A patriotic mutant. A monster after my own heart.
It croaked again, a word familiar to anyone versed in the darker corners of the League’s case histories.
“Innsmouth.”
“What about Innsmouth?” I was getting impatient, sitting here talking to a freak, when my overriding impulse was to put one shot in its heart and another in its brain.
“Church.”
Springer spoke up, gently. “You want us to go to a church in Innsmouth?”
Then, we heard the sound of approaching voices carrying up along the riverbank, laughing and joking like there was nothing wrong with the world, like monsters weren’t real.
The creature looked as us urgently, inasmuch as it could manage urgency with the lifeless black marbles it had for eyes.
“Follow . . . the . . . bloodline.”
And with that it was gone, sliding back into the river and immediately vanishing, like a spoonful of arsenic dissolving into coffee.
Springer and I looked at each other, neither of us saying anything, each waiting for the other to speak. I opened my mouth and, suddenly, everything hit me in a wave and my legs went to Jell-O. I collapsed back to the dirt, dignified as ever. But some things you just don’t get over. Not in a mere lifetime, you don’t.
I fumbled inside my jacket for my flask, but my damn useless hands were shaking too badly and I dropped it in the grass. I swore, furious and embarrassed and terrified all at once.
Springer quietly knelt down beside me and picked up the flask. Unscrewed the cap and held it to my lips. I drank deeply, suddenly grateful to have a partner for the first time in my life.
“What the hell happened to you, Harry?” she murmured.
I paused for a breath. “Remind me . . . to tell you over a drink sometime.”
She removed the flask from my lips and took a swallow.
I tried to laugh, only managing a weak cough. “You want to be careful that doesn’t become a habit.”
IV
Innsmouth was like someone’s pitch-black idea for an amusement park: New England after an apocalypse. On the edge of the sea but mired in salt marsh all round, you could see it had once been a charming little town, a hundred or more years ago when it was a prosperous port. The decades since had not been kind to it, or rather, the residents hadn’t been, but its decaying mansions and cobblestone squares told a story about what had once been.
The stink of dead fish in the street, and the handful of residents slinking through its otherwise deserted alleyways, told another one. Nobody who was a signed-up member of the Human Protection League was unfamiliar with what was meant by Innsmouth. It was far more than just the name of another nearly deserted town. And I could see it for myself—rising out of the sea, the dark shape known as Devil Reef.
I just stood there for a moment or two looking at it, and thinking about some of the stories I’d heard about it. Despite everything I’d seen, I still found them scarcely believable. Tales of vast underwater structures, hellscapes of stone and water inhabited by things that used to be human and things that never had been human and never would be.
The sea looked so placid that morning. God, how I’d loved the ocean as a kid. Now the thought of its icy waters—their home—touching my flesh gave me the shudders.
But I wasn’t there to sightsee, and moreover, it was better if no one saw me either. I’d left my car well outside of town, but didn’t dare pick up my pace above a walk on the way in for fear both of being spotted and dropping dead of heatstroke. Outsiders didn’t come to Innsmouth without attracting attention; to that end, I’d covered myself up from head to toe, tucking my hair under a knit cap. I was also wearing a bulky coat with a big flashlight tucked inside and Jesus Christ, I was sweating like a pig. I’d never say it to his face, but to tell the truth, Rooks looked bad enough that he’d blend in here a lot better than me. I’d drawn the short straw on this one though.
With any luck I wouldn’t be there long. Nobody took much notice of me as I loped through the streets, although if any of them spoke to me I’d be sunk—I couldn’t even imitate a New England accent, let alone the gurgling speech of Innsmouth residents. I’m from southern California, which means I’m used to hearing all kinds of unusual foreign languages; the sounds that came from these inhabitants when I passed too close to a pair of them wasn’t like any human language I’d ever encountered.
I found the faux Gothic stone church easily enough, based on descriptions I’d been given. Its entrances were all padlocked with heavy chains, as they’d allegedly been for nearly fifty years, not that anyone really believed it kept them from getting in there and doing their rites or whatever they’re called. This would be the tricky part. The locks themselves were no problem, but I had to get in without being seen. In normal circumstances, I’d have used the cover of night, but of course Innsmouth was not normal. Daytime was far safer, but carried its own risks.
I looked up at the blank windows of what appeared to be deserted houses all up and down the street. There was no way of knowing what was really behind them, what manner of creatures might be watching me. I walked around toward the basement door. I was a little less in the line of sight here, although still somewhat in view, but there was nothing to be done about it. I was as quick as I could be, as I snapped the chains apart and slipped inside.
The fishy smell that permeated the town was almost unbearable inside the church. I tasted bile at the back of my throat, and retched a few times before I got control of myself. I fumbled for my flashlight and clicked it on and noted, as far as I could see, that I seemed to be alone in there at least. There was nothing else good about where I’d found myself.
The Esoteric Order of Dagon appeared to use their church’s basement to store relics not currently in use, and I found my flashlight passing over objects I can hardly describe. There aren’t words to characterize them, because they were imitations of figures not of this dimension. Just looking at them does something to your mind, as it tries to encompass the likeness of nonexistent shapes and colors. You could feel your sanity stretching to the breaking point as it tried to make sense of it all.
I pointed the flashlight at the floor. Madness was not a luxury I could afford. I could hear a distant sound of running water. There was a not-insignificant chance that a stream leading to the ocean was somewhere nearby, possibly even running through a subbasement. In the cloying damp and stench, I couldn’t tell. But as I stood there in the dark, something happened to me. That wet, suffocating basement became the whole world. My sunny California childhood fell away, what lay behind it, behind everything, suddenly revealed—existence was a howling void, our own efforts puny and pointless beside the monstrous entities that would soon consume us. And it would be as if humanity itself had never been.
“Snap the hell out of it, Springer,” I said out loud. I had a job to do. I’d entered the church because of what the Deep One had said, and there was a good chance this was where I needed to be to find what I came for—information. I lost some valuable time looking for a light switch—surely the more human among them still needed regular old lights to look at stuff—but I was unsuccessful. I carved a partition in my mind to do what I had to do next: conduct a methodical search of that basement and the things they kept there. I put many of those objects behind that partition, where my mind could scream and protest all it wanted. I couldn’t let that get in the way of the job. Eventually I found what I was looking for—stacks of old books, church records and genealogies, and long passages written in unrecognizable alphabets.
I was increasingly aware that all of this was taking too long, and that each passing moment put me in greater danger.<
br />
I didn’t even know what I was looking for. I was here on the direction of some monster thing that had crawled out of the river and croaked a few words at us. Rooks was confident that the information was good, said he had an instinct for that kind of thing, but I wasn’t so sure.
In the end it was chance and no particular skill on my part that led me to the jackpot. I’d switched out the batteries on the flashlight once already and was cursing myself for not bringing more, since this second set was dying as well. I was poring over another of the endless genealogies—those Innsmouth folks were real into genealogy—when my index finger, tracking rapidly down yet another page, came to an abrupt stop.
I tracked back up and then down again.
Hannah Milhous.
Richard Milhous Nixon.
I sat back on my heels. Out loud, I said, “And here I always thought they were just a nice Midwestern Quaker family.”
I mean, some of them were, I guess. But if the chart I was holding was to be believed, one branch of Nixon’s ancestry had its roots here in Innsmouth.
At that moment, several things happened at once. I heard flapping, splashing, and swimming sounds as well as the sound of running footsteps in the street outside. I realized the sounds had been going on for several minutes, but I’d been so engrossed in the search and so stunned by the discovery I’d ignored them. Lot of good that super-hearing did me. I tore the page out of the book and made a dash for the exit, but my inattention had cost me. There were half a dozen or more of them on the other side of the door, holding it shut. I was strong, but so were they—freakishly, horrifyingly strong.
I turned, and ran for stairs I’d glimpsed earlier and noted as a potential escape route, if necessary. As I did, they came out of the dark.
The Lovecraft Squad: Dreaming Page 27