The Darkness in their Eyes, Part Two

           The plan was maddeningly simple: Get abducted.

Then try not to end up a mutilated corpse floating in on the next tide.

            Both Miller and O’Leary had swallowed their objections the evening before. O’Leary mounted a second unsuccessful offensive in the daylight hours when de Curieux told her not only could she not bring along a firearm, but certainly not explosives (“No matter how well hidden”). Miller, terrified by the previous evening’s events, stayed out of it.

            “I don’t like this at all,” O’Leary said as the two of them strolled, much more evenly-paced this time, back toward the Bait and Tackle. They had spent the day holed up in the hotel room, not wishing to give Fife any early opportunities to abscond with a member of the party, and night had fallen once again on the Maine seacoast.

            “I know,” Miller replied. He fought the urge to glance over his shoulder. Somewhere, out there, de Curieux and Winchester were watching. That much had been assured to them as they ventured out alone.

            “Not at all,” O’Leary said. “There’s something--”

            “--rotten in Rottsport,” Miller finished.

            O’Leary glared at him.

            “That’s not funny,” she said.

            “I wasn’t trying to be funny,” Miller said.

            The conversation died there, leaving the two of them alone in their thoughts. Miller’s mind turned increasingly toward the dreaded yet inescapable outcome. Back in the hotel room, de Curieux had discussed the plan with serene confidence. It calmed his nerves. Out here, though, as the wind howled off the north Atlantic, he felt his pulse quickening.

            If all went well, they would be kidnapped soon enough. He would have laughed at the absurdity of the thought if it were not so grim.

            O’Leary pulled him aside as they approached the bar and drew him close as if to kiss.

            “What’s our plan?” she whispered into his ear instead. Miller looked and saw that a few toughs were smoking cigarettes outside the entrance and making no pretenses about staring at the young couple.

            “Get kidnapped,” he said.

“I meant, in there. When it’s just the two of us,” she hissed.

“Act natural?” he asked hesitantly, not sure of the correct answer.

“Unless they’re really confident, they are going to do this quietly,” she said. “I doubt everyone in this hick town is in on it. They’re going to want to separate us. Let them separate us. Be friendly. Talk to everyone. Make a show of how drunk you’re getting. Whatever the method--a threatening weapon, a cold-cock to the head--go along with it.”

O’Leary slapped him on the ass and drew away.

“And remember, have fun out there,” she said, jovially.

“I’ll try,” Miller mumbled, turning to follow her past the muscle-bound men into the low slung building. He had not put too much thought into just how they would be abducted. He realized he had assumed some sort of polite suggestion that they follow along with their new captors. A cold-cocking sound much more likely and much less enjoyable.

The weekend was in full swing inside the Bait and Tackle. Whereas the barroom had all the liviliness of a crypt during the daylight hours, it was positively energetic now. Men and women in leather, denim and plaid crowded the bar, trading stories and swapping jokes. Overhead, an ancient speaker system belted out a mix of classic rock, country and blues.

O’Leary took the lead, threading a needle through the the crowd. Even without a gun, her presence impelled men and women out of her way. She cut a path toward the bar, which promptly closed up behind her. Miller followed, apologizing meekly as he bounced off elbows, shoulders and forearms.

The bartender was the same as the previous day, but he appeared in a much better mood and brightened when he saw the pair.

“Welcome back,” he shouted over the music.

O’Leary nodded and ordered two drinks. Miller, cut off by two particularly burly men discussing the intricacies of an Indian motorcycle, could not make out her words. The barkeep nodded in vigorous agreement and began pouring various liquors into a mixer.

Seeing a gap between the men, Miller leaned forward.

“What did you get?” he asked.

“Long Island iced teas,” she replied. “Bottoms up, honey.”

He took a long pull through one of those incredibly, uselessly thin straws. The mix of alcohols illuminated his taste buds and swirled down into a pleasantly warming mushroom cloud in his stomach. Miller had to give the barkeep credit. It was a headache in a glass, but it tasted amazing.

O’Leary remained several arm lengths away, already chatting up several of the burly men thronging the bar. She laughed loudly at their jokes and whispered gayly into their ears. Miller could not decide whether she was having fun or not.

He, meanwhile, was jostled about like a ship at sea. No one around him had taken notice of his presence, at he rebounded between flailing limbs and hoisted drinks. He studiously sipped at his drink. At least the plan called for getting good and buzzed.

Suddenly, Miller felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Rawson Fife standing beside him.

“Decided to take your chances on Rottsport, kid?” Rawson hollered into his ear. Like the bartender, he had undergone an enormous change: He was smiling.

“Giving the old college try,” Miller shouted back between sips. The iced tea was quite good. “We still have a day left on the hotel, anyway.”

Fife nodded knowingly, his faded ball cap bobbing up and down.

“They got an old joke about Rottsport. This town puts its hooks in you,” he said. “It’s hard to leave.”

Miller did not quite like the way Fife phrased it, but went along with him. The other man clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

“Let me buy you a drink, neighbor” Fife shouted. He pulled Miller along with him. The mechanic’s apprentice glanced back nervously at O’Leary. Surrounded by newfound friends, she winked at him and pantomimed smoking a cigarette outside. He nodded as the two separated.

Well, that was easy enough, he thought. Step one, accomplished. He finished his Long Island iced tea and handed the glass to Fife, who swapped it out for what looked like a gin and tonic. Remembering O’Leary’s advice, he sucked down the drink greedily.

And felt it immediately go to his head.

Fife leaned in, smiling. He whispered something, but it didn’t make much sense to Miller. He could hear the noise, but it came in garbled, like a fading radio transmission. Still, Miller smiled back, in a lazy fashion.

Fife kept talking, and Miller kept nodding along, not noticing how herky-jerky the motion had become. He found himself struggling to stand up right and reached out weakly for support.

A hand reached around Miller’s shoulders, buttressing him. The mechanic’s apprentice looked up to see who it was--a suddenly laborious task--and saw Fife and several burly men flanking him. Fife was speaking with some concern and motioning at Miller. The big men nodded and Fife leaned in to Miller. This time he could make out the words.

“Looks like you had too much, pal,” Fife said. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you.”

Standing on the few feet of sand between the rocky shore and the cold Atlantic, de Curieux coolly surveyed the expanse of Eliat Bay. Here the ground rose briefly before vanishing before the might of the ocean, giving the shore the appearance of a raised lip. A hundred meters or so down, a fissure opened by eons of waves pounding against the coast led to a network of interlocking caves.

That was where de Curieux figured Miller and O’Leary ended up. It was a guess, but an intelligent guess, of course. He had stumbled across references to the cave system in one of the library’s more off-color histories of the region. Unlike the government-sanctioned accounts, this one included stories of pirates, witchcraft, fishing wars, and Prohibition-era bootleggers, who set up caches of Canadian rye all along the remote Maine coast.

As expected, the tracking devices installed on his compatriots’ mobile phones had been quickly rendered useless. He could tail the pair as far as the tavern without drawing suspicion, but dared not enter the Bait and Tackle without arousing unwanted attention. Instead, he had Winchester park around the corner and wait for him while he monitored the duo electronically. He smiled when the blips representing Miller and O’Leary split up before eventually reuniting at the rear of the bar.

About that time, he heard an engine valiantly struggle to come to life. The colonel ducked back into the shadows lining the street as an extended cab truck bedecked in fishing gear rumbled by him. It swung into the tavern parking lot and then around to the kitchen entrance.

By the time de Curieux returned to the car containing a very excited Winchester, a caravan of vehicles had swung out of the bar headed east toward the water.

“Drive,” de Curieux instructed him simply.

They followed the tracking device until it both blips faded off the screen somewhere along the coast.

“Have we been--what do they say in the movies--made?” Winchester asked.

“Most likely they tossed our friends’ phones into the ocean as a precaution,” de Curieux said, and instructed Winchester to continue driving until they reached an oceanside pull off not far from the bay. Though the abductors could have gone anywhere, he was betting heavily on the old smugglers’ den. He had hoped to head them off before they reached their destination, but the loss of a signal nixed the plan.

Now, wind roaring off the water, moon glinting on the waves, de Curieux girded himself for what was to come. He took a deep breath, tasting the salt in the air, and shifted the weight of the revolver on his hip.

“What next?” Winchester asked. He was positively aglow, handing gripping the pistol Miller had loaned him awkwardly.

“Now we do a bit of spelunking,” de Curieux said. He strode forward, hoping the small-town cabal had been sloppy enough to not post sentries at the cave’s entrance.

Twice de Curieux reminded comically unathletic Winchester that stealth was of the utmost importance. Only once did he have to tell him to stop waving the damn gun about in the air as if they were acting in an Old West show.

The going was easier than expected, despite the weather-worn rocks left slippery by ocean spray. De Curieux kept a hand on the cool cavern walls at all times, navigating only by the sliver of moonlight penetrating the gloom. Not for the first time did he thank the heavens for a clear, fogless night.

Finally, they spied the dull orange glow of firelight ahead. De Curieux motioned for Winchester to duck down, and slowly they crept forward. Together, they crouched behind a rock outcropping giving them an unobstructed view of the stalagmite and stalactite-filled central chamber.

About two dozen shapes filled the cavern, separated loosely by the uneven ground and fang-shaped calcium deposits. An alter-shaped slab of rock sat in the center, whether crafted by hand or erosion, de Curieux could not say, upon which Miller and O’Leary lay bound and gagged. Both were awake--Miller staring out in wide-eyed horror while O’Leary desperately worked her wrists, trying to free herself from the bonds.

“We begin again, my friends,” said a muffled voice. “Tonight, we consecrate two more souls to the deep in the ancient manner, in the hopes the hidden ones may repay our homage with bounty.”

De Curieux peered over the rock, obscured--he hoped--by the deep shadows cast by the powerful glare of several portable work lights. Many in the crowd donned hooded sweatshirts, others wore bandanas to obscure their faces. The robed leader at their center that de Curieux assumed to be Rawson Fife wore a gas mask.

“Winchester,” he hissed. “Your thoughts, if you please.”

Wet, tired and bruised from a fall at the cave’s entrance, the diminutive Winchester remained as eager as ever. He quickly scanned the scene and then ducked back down behind the outcropping.

“They are arrayed in manner reminiscent of descriptions of the Chesuncook Witch Coven,” Winchester reported breathlessly. “But the clothing is all off and, frankly, this cavern is a far cry from what is supposedly necessary for their rituals. I don’t see any unnatural beasts here that the coven was claimed to harbor.

“There’s also no reference to them ever bargaining with the supernatural in return for rewards. They merely sought the destruction of the world in its present form,” he continued.

“So it’s likely a sham,” de Curieux said.

“If the archives of Miskatonic University are to be believed, then yes. I could always be wrong, of course,” Winchester said. “It’s seemingly a mismatch of different influences, several from occult films, but I don’t know the reason behind the gas mask. That eludes me. It does have a rather shocking effect, though.”

De Curieux weighed the information. That it was a sham was a good thing. He had his revolver were it all to turn out more than that, although he did not relish testing its legendary abilities. But regardless of the purpose of this facade--if it was, indeed, such--he likely would need the threat of force to free his comrades in arms.

“I am sure we will find out soon enough why our friend is wearing protection,” de Curieux said, propping himself back up for a view. He did not make out any weapons on the figures surrounding the altar, but that meant little given their winter wear.

Meanwhile, the masked figure at the center reached below the makeshift altar and produced a long-stemmed oven match, struck it and raised the flame before his motley crew of adherents.

“We begin,” he said, and lowered the match back below the slab of rock. Almost immediately, a hazy yet greasy vapor rose up.

“That explains the gas mask, perhaps,” Winchester whispered. “But no one else is wearing one. It’s very curious.”

At the sight of it, O’Leary began to struggle more vigorously. Even Miller began to writhe in an attempt to escape the azure-colored smoke. De Curieux felt pangs of guilt and fear. Not much longer, he wanted to shout, but held his tongue.

“Do you smell it?” de Curieux asked. “It is vaguely familiar.”

Winchester clutched his chest, his first show of fear.

“Of course, I should have known,” he hissed. “Black henbane.”

“A nightshade?” de Curieux asked.

“A powerful sedative and hallucinogenic,” Winchester replied. “From here, we should be safe, given the loss of potency when dispersed as an aerosol. Your friends, though…”

He trailed off as chanting rose up from the chamber’s core. It started slow, but grew in fervor. The sound, echoing off of the rock walls, took on an ephemeral quality, de Curieux thought.

“Mutilated lips,” the gathered said in unison. “Mutilated lips give a kiss on the wrist of the wormlike tips of tentacles expanding in our minds. We offer only fresh brine.”

Before de Curieux’s eyes, the struggles of O’Leary and Miller slowed, and then stopped. Their expanding pupils flickered wildly before halting, fading behind a glaze. It was impossible to know if Fife was smiling behind the rubber of his mask, but de Curieux suspected it.

A long, curved knife rose into the air, the harsh light of the lamps glinting off of the wicked blade. It hovered for a moment over Miller before slashing downward.

De Curieux squinted to see better. A thin line of blood bubbled up from the mechanic’s face and trickled down his chin. Yet, Miller did not react in pain. He did not react at all.

Suddenly, it clicked together for de Curieux. He glanced at Winchester, who was watching in awe.

“How potent is henbane as a sedative?” he asked.

“It works for minor aches and pains,” Winchester said. “Not like this, though. It’s more of a topical anesthetic. In various forms it can be lethal. This is certainly augmented. For what purpose, though?”

De Curieux gave him a long stare.

“That should be quite evident,” he said. “Imagine unleashing a compound that creates mass immobilization. It could be quite useful.”

            “Still, it appears limited in its range of effectiveness,” Winchester said. “But further observation may reveal more clues.”

Glancing back at the ritual, de Curieux saw the knife flashing again. He pulled the ancient revolver from its holster and cocked the hammer. The sound of its lethality was lost in the haunting chants.

“I am afraid we cannot afford to be so academic,” he said.

“What do we do?” Winchester asked eagerly. His weapon was suddenly out and waving wildly in de Curieux’s face.

“First, please refrain from accidently shooting me,” he instructed. “Second, make a scene and scatter them. I would rather not kill anyone, but it if weapons are drawn, then defend us to the last.”

Winchester nodded, but de Curieux still had to reach out, grab his hand and point his firearm in the right direction. Then the colonel stood and leveled out his revolver.

“Kindly let my companions go,” he called out, cutting the chanting voices short. His appearance broke the spell cast by the masked man and the others looked around in obvious confusion.

“Now, please,” de Curieux added after a beat.

The masked man’s head snapped up. Even through the opaque, dead eyes of the device, the hatred was evident. The figure cocked his head for a moment, as if weighing his options. Then he gestured at his adherents.

“Kill them,” he rasped.

As they began moving, hands clawing undoubtedly for hidden knives, guns and bats, de Curieux opened fire. The big revolver spat fire in great belches. De Curieux felt the reverberations up and down the length of his arm.

He worked methodically. The massive bullets tore apart eons old rock formations and relatively recently made flesh equally indifferently. He, as a matter of course, disliked violence. Least of all violence brought about by way of the gun. It had been that way since Mametz wood.

But it was an art he was well versed in, and like a musician called back for an unwanted encore, he performed well.

Next to him, Winchester fired blindly, madly. Were rock walls innocents, the academic could have been brought up on war crimes.

As the last round roared out of the heavy revolver, de Curieux took stock of the situation. At least four were incapacitated, stretched out prone on the damp cave floor. Most of the rest were running deeper into the cave, likely toward a secondary exit.

He lowered the gun and flipped out the cylinder, letting the casings rattle on the ground. There was one obstacle left before them: the man in the gas mask had remained immobile, not flinching as death flitted about him. Instead, as his members fled, he had leaned over Miller, pressing his knife up against the mechanic’s neck.

“We are at an impasse, friend,” the man hissed.

De Curieux stepped out around the outcropping, quietly reloading the revolver.

“There is an easy solution,” he said. “You let my friends go. I will take you into custody and turn you over to the state authorities on suspicion of murder.”

“Let’s say I was willing,” the masked man said. “Why would I trust you not to just kill me?”

“Because I am Colonel Thaddeus de Curieux, military attaché aboard the Airship Renegade,” the colonel replied. “My word is good.”

The man reached behind his head with a free hand and undid the buckles and straps. After a few moments, he tugged off the mask, revealing a rugged, tan face inset with eyes burning with such intensity they glowed.

“Blackwood warned me about you,” Rawson Fife said. “I was wondering if the bogeyman would show. You’re the only thing that scares him.”

“You are very kind,” de Curieux said, “to compliment me so.”

He took a step forward, carefully controlling his breathing.

“I am afraid I can’t accept your offer,” Fife said. “Not without a little negotiation, at least. I always liked haggling. I’d also like to hear you beg.”

“For what?”

“For your friends’ lives,” Fife said and shrugged. He flipped his wrist and drew a line of blood down Miller’s neck. “Well, maybe only one of them. I’m pretty far along with this one. And who knows, maybe I’ll actually summon the ancients this time.”

De Curieux inched forward again, a half step this time. The revolver remained at his side, weighted with six large-caliber cartridges. He looked for a sign of weakness but saw none. Fife’s face betrayed nothing but sinister mirth.

“Four dead, and for what? What were you hoping would happen? What were you going to do when these people found out you had used an old legend to lead them to murder?” De Curieux asked, fighting to keep his voice even.

“Personally,” Fife replied, “I was hoping the old incantations, even if mangled, would unleash a dark and fiery hell upon this world. Barring that, your friend Blackwood offered to pay well if I could concoct a compound capable of rendering vast crowds incapacitated for long periods of times.”

He motioned with his knife at Miller.

“This is the finest batch yet,” Fife said. “The last one started screaming midway through the evisceration.”

“And when they realized you had conned them?”

Fife rolled his eyes.

“Turn the compound on them and flee,” he said. “It’s not complicated. I’m a very simple guy.”

He traced the knife in circles on Miller’s chest. Then he brought the knife up high in the air, clutching it with both hands. Fife never took his eyes off of de Curieux. The look in them had change, though, from burning hatred to morbid curiosity. A smile played at his lips.

De Curieux froze, letting all of the muscles in his body tense. His gaze switched from Fife’s questioning face to the dangling knife.

The blade dropped; de Curieux’s revolver rose. A gunshot echoed across the cave’s cathedral ceiling.

Fife staggered backward, the knife slipping from his hand and clattering on the rocky floor. He dropped to his knees, clutching at the gaping maw below his shoulder. The bullet fired from de Curieux’s revolver had torn a bloody hole in his soft flesh.

In his long years, de Curieux witnessed many men react to battlefield wounds. Some fell dumb from the shock; others prayed. More than a few called for lovers or, barring any, their mothers. Very few cried, fewer still laughed.

But Fife began laughing as blood spurted out over his hand.

“That hurts something fierce,” he said, between guffaws. “It’s wonderful, really.”

He glanced up and studied his adversary for a long moment.

“That is a very fine revolver--where did you get it?” he asked. “I saw one like it once--two, actually. They belonged to an old acquaintance of mine.”

De Curieux trained the revolver at the center of his chest.

“I think it is time to stop talking and bow to the inevitable,” he said.

“Nothing is inevitable except death,” Fife laughed back at him.

Groaning, he stood up. De Curieux’s revolver followed him as he rose. The knife, though out of Fife’s hands, was a mere foot or so away.

“There is no hope of rescue. Blackwood will not come for you. I know him to not particularly worry about his underlings,” de Curieux said, trying to sound peaceable despite the circumstances. “You might as well come with us.”

“Blackwood,” Fife replied so vehemently that blood splattered out of the side of his mouth. “I don’t care about Blackwood and he doesn’t care about me. He has no comprehension of what he is toying with. All he cares for is his own self-aggrandizement.”

Fife pointed a finger at de Curieux.

“He’s a kid playing with matches. Me, I came to the party with the cherry bombs and gasoline,” he crooned. “And unlike Blackwood, I want to watch the world burn. All of it.”

He dropped the hand and stared hard at the knife. De Curieux tightened his grip on the revolver. But the colonel did not squeeze the trigger.

“You don’t want to kill me, do you?” Fife asked, snapping his gaze back to de Curieux.

De Curieux did not answer.

“I’ve met men like you,” Fife said. “You’re a killer. I can see it in the way you hold yourself and your gun. You’re the type of man they wrote songs about once upon a time. But you won’t kill me.”

“I do not relish death,” de Curieux said without intonation. “Not anymore.”

Fife laughed maniacally, more blood spraying from his mouth.

“So you got a good scare once upon a time and gave it up? That’s no good, not at all,” he sputtered. “And here, Blackwood tried to send me shaking in my boots with his stories about you.”

“I denied a man a chance at redemption; I killed him because I believed anyone who once opposed the things I stood for must be inherently evil,” de Curieux said. “Though I realized my mistake I found I could not wash the stain from my honor, from my memory. I have not felt the need to take life since.”

“We’ll see if we can change that,” Fife replied. He licked his hungry lips and glanced back at the knife.

De Curieux felt the muscles in his arm beginning to tremble under the heft of the revolver. He flexed his fingers, trying to tighten his grip. Whatever Fife’s tolerance for pain, he should not have remained standing, not this long, not with a gaping, bloody maw above his shoulder.

The man leapt with lightning speed. Reflexively, de Curieux squeezed the trigger. The revolver clicked, but instead of the resounding boom, de Curieux heard a soft popping noise. Dismay spread across his face as the realization of a misfire sunk home.

In the brief moment de Curieux mentally processed the click instead of bang, Fife grabbed the knife. He stood, clutching it to his crimson-stained chest, a wicked grin spreading across his face. The blade shimmered as he swept it through the air above Miller’s defenseless body.

Two gunshots echoed through the chamber. The knife slipped from Fife’s grasped as he faltered. De Curieux did not look for the source of the gunfire. He cocked the hammer and fired a fresh round into the other man.

This time, Fife fell on his back, hands still clawing at the knife. He gurgled blood and gasped raggedly for breath, but still he breathed. He would not die, de Curieux thought, as he straddled him and pointed the barrel down directly at his head.

Fife stopped twitching and cranked his head so that he was facing de Curieux. Blood was smeared across his features, matting his hair to his head. Muscles spasmed as life drained from his spent body. Still, his eyes burned red hot. And he smiled.

“Go on then and do it,” Fife hissed. “There are more worlds than this.”

De Curieux did not hear the blast, but felt the revolver recoil and the viscera splatter upon his skin. There was not much left of Rawson Fife, he saw.

His ears still ringing from the succession of gunfire, de Curieux holstered the revolver. Then he looked behind him. A wide-eyed Winchester stood there, leaning over the outcropping, sidearm outstretched, a tendril of smoke rising from the barrel. His expression was equal parts disgust and excitement.

Winchester looked at de Curieux.

“How did I do?”

De Curieux nodded.

“Quite well,” he said.

“Well enough to arrange for an interview with the Captain XO of The Renegade?”

“We can discuss it,” de Curieux replied. “Now, for God’s sake, man, help me with these two before they succumb to the henbane.”

Scotland

Miller rubbed his forehead, praying for the aspirin to kick in, as the train slid gracefully past the small villages dotting the lush landscape between Glasgow and Wick. Every warp in the track, pebble on the rail, sent fresh pain shooting through his head. This was, he decided, the worst hangover in his life.

Looking across the table at O’Leary, he saw that she was having as rough a go of it as him. She was grimacing and sipping on a glass of water exploding with alka seltzer. Catching him, O’Leary tried to put on a brave smile, but another jolt in the carriage turned it into a wince. Never again, she mouthed at Miller after the pain subsided.

He smiled, despite the pain.

“Feeling any better?” de Curieux asked as he slid open the door to their private compartment, holding a bottle of champagne.

“Maybe after a glass of hair of the dog,” O’Leary replied, reaching for the bottle.

“Compliments of Captain XO,” de Curieux said, taking a seat.

As soon as they had landed in Europe, the colonel had switched back into one of his better suits and ties. From beneath the jacket, he produced three champagne flutes and laid them out carefully on the table. O’Leary, who had undone the cork with little fanfare, poured the bubbly out.

De Curieux raised a toast, and his two compatriots weakly matched it.

“I appreciate it,” O’Leary said after forcing down a few sips. “Don’t take me the wrong way, I really do. But why is Captain XO buying us fancy sparkling wine? We didn’t do much.”

“Nonsense,” de Curieux replied. “Rawson Fife is a menace. While I had never crossed paths with him, Captain XO has seen his handiwork before, and anything that hinders Degory Blackwood’s machinations is to be celebrated.”

Miller attempted a large sip of champagne, but found his stomach rising in rebellion. He girded himself and imbibed more slowly.

“Funny, I got the impression you knew Fife better than that,” Miller said. “I mean, you were pretty keen on this whole trip based off of one quote attributed to him in a small town newspaper.”

“Fife is clever enough to use assumed names, but he takes pride in his work. He uses the same initials much of the time as a signature on his work,” de Curieux said. “It was one more clue.”

O’Leary nodded and refilled her glass. At least the champagne was agreeing with her, Miller thought.

“Too bad you had to kill him,” O’Leary said. “I thought you had a thing against that, though?”

“I have a thing, as you say, against killing men,” de Curieux replied mildly, though his frame stiffened at the question. “For all of mankind’s faults, there is a grace in it. Fife is an animal.”

“You keep using present tense,” Miller said. “You did kill him, right? I don’t remember much until we got back to Logan. It’s kinda blurry.”

“If I didn’t, I came as close as anyone has,” de Curieux said.

He looked off into the cloudy countryside. An uncomfortable silence filled the compartment.

“Well, you still have that gun, right?” Miller asked, interrupting the quiet.

“No, I left it with Winchester,” de Curieux replied. “I have a feeling he will have more need of it in the future, especially after his chat with Captain XO.”

“So he got a job on The Renegade?” O’Leary asked.

“Yes,” de Curieux said, and left it at that.

“And what’s next for us, or dare I ask?”

De Curieux smiled and leaned back into the cushions padding his seat. The clouds outside had grown more ominous and rain had begun to tap against the windows.

“I think it’s high time we got some rest,” he said. “But keep a weather eye open, as always.”

Debrief Report

To: Captain XO

From: Chief, Debriefing Team

Subject: Debrief of Scientist, Doctor [REDACTED]

Background: Following the extraction of Doctor [REDACTED] (hereafter, Doctor) from the Muscovite South China Sea island, a debrief team conducted two interviews with the Doctor. Both debriefs were conducted onboard the Renegade while we transited to Shanghai for the handoff of the Doctor to Finnish government. Based on the debriefs, it is clear why the Finns were alarmed.

The Doctor, a Woods Hole Oceanographic trained Biological Oceangrapher, had been conducting research into genetic drift among populations of ocean dependent local populations in the South Seas, attempting to identify epigenetic changes and adaptation as a result of heavy use of ocean products (as he put, ‘I wanted to see if fishermen grew more fishy.’)

The Doctor, while island hopping to conduct research, found a population that showed significant adaptation to the maritime environment, especially as they aged. Despite the Doctor’s efforts, he was unable to obtain any DNA samples voluntarily, and he stated his code of ethics as a scientist prevented him from obtaining a sample surreptiously.

The Doctor had written and transmitted an email to a colleague, regarding his initial observations, as well as his frustrations in gathering data. The next day, the Doctor was kidnapped off the R/V  Stalwart. The Doctor believes he was drugged and taken while unconscious to the Muscovite research lab, where he was interrogated and then forced under duress to work with Musccovite scientists on genetic experimentation, using a variety of cell cultures from a previously unknown (to the Doctor) species. The Doctor noted that the DNA in the cell cultures was exceptionally ‘malleable’ and seemed capable of adapting its genetic compatibility to other DNA that it was introduced to. The Doctor came to the conclusion, based on the research direction, that the Muscovite controllers and researchers were working on a method to introduce piscine genetic traits and features to a human population (his quote: ‘Fish men. Like The Shape of Water, or the Creature from the Black Lagoon.’) He theorized that the purpose behind the research may have had several reasons: 1) climate change adaptation; introduction of piscine traits may be theorized to give an evolutionary advantage to a population; 2) Addition of piscine traits could lead to the development of Marines/Frogmen that are superbly adapted for littoral warfare, hence Finland’s interest, given the on-going skirmishing between Muscovy and the Finns.

The Darkness in their Eyes, Part One

The Darkness in their Eyes, Part One

by Derrick T. Perkins

(Captain XO's note: Derrick has written another crackerjack de Curieux story, a bit different than his usual Ruritania type stories.  We are proud to continue to publish his work.)

“I don’t like this at all,” said Sergeant Siobhan O’Leary, pacing the cramped hotel room, one hand on her hip, the other on her holster. “Not at all.”

            Sitting forlornly on one of the two beds crammed into the place, mechanic’s apprentice Joe Miller nodded silently. From the lumpy mattress, he had a full view of the angry, gray Atlantic beating against the oddball collection of docks and piers lining this stretch of the eastern Maine coastline. This time of year, it proved difficult to determine where the water ended and the overcast sky began.

“He left two hours ago, two,” O’Leary said. “And all he has with him is that funky revolver and the nerd we picked up yesterday. There’s something rotten in Rottsport, Maine.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that, and it’s still not funny,” Miller replied, not breaking his gaze from the window. “I’m also pretty sure it’s pronounced ‘rotes-port.’”

“The point stands,” O’Leary said. “I say we go looking for him.”

“How? And where would we even start?” Miller replied. He liked O’Leary. The fiery public affairs specialist for the pirate airship The Renegade was equal parts sass and bravado. More often than not, though, the traits combined as well as fire and gasoline. Two things she liked, oddly enough.

“I’m sure there’s someone who knows something. Maybe that dumpy fishermen’s bar down the street, or that creepy church by the docks,” she said. “Anything is better than sitting here.”

“His instructions were pretty clear,” Miller replied, gesturing at the note they had found underneath their door that morning. “Enjoy the view until he returns.”

The lanky, roseate-haired woman stopped and grinned daringly at Miller.

“There’s a lot of places in this town to enjoy the view,” she said. “Let’s go sightseeing.”

Miller groaned. But he reached for his gun. Maybe he wouldn’t need it, he thought. Not likely, but a man could hope.

Two days prior, Miller had been back in Wick, Scotland, still believing he might re-adjust from the jetlag before duty called yet again. Although exhausted from their exploits across the Atlantic, Colonel Thaddeus de Curieux, military attaché to the pirate airship The Renegade, had immediately put them back to work. After all, he said, there was a black cloud hanging on the horizon.

A black and crimson-painted cloud. The rival airship Grafvitnir had vanished into the stormy sky above Vermont’s north country and not been seen since, although de Curieux warned that was bad rather than good news. With his rival Degory Blackwood, a polymath formerly of the mysterious Miskatonic University, at her helm, The Grafvitnir remained an imminent threat. Tracking her down, rescuing The Renegade’s chief of engineering--held hostage by Blackwood--and destroying her were de Curieux’s directives.

To do so, he reassembled his travel-weary team after just a few hours of sleep, handed them each a mug of tea and assigned them a selection of news outlets to monitor.

“Look for anything out of the ordinary,” he said, as Miller had rubbed his eyes. “Obviously, a sighting of a Konig-class Zeppelin would be preferential, but I doubt a man like Degory will be so helpful.”

“Out of the ordinary?” Miller asked.

“Strange sightings, inexplicable phenomena, peculiar weather patterns, that sort of thing,” de Curieux said. “Oddities of any sort, as well. Blackwood is beating the devil’s tattoo and all manner of vile creatures will heed his call.”

De Curieux pointed toward a thick stack of newspapers on the center table. Many of them, from Miller’s vantage, appeared to be small town weeklies from all corners of the globe.

“The silver lining in all of this may be that while Degory is a subtle man, many of his would-be adherents are not. They may leave a trail of breadcrumbs,” he said. “Report anything unusual to me, immediately. Miller, take the city editions of the major papers. Sergeant O’Leary, social media is your domain, so have at it.”

The colonel turned to Gustav Hanover, the prickly German pilot with a penchant for assassination.

“Lieutenant, how many languages do you speak again?”

“Six, not including the various dialects I am familiar with,” he answered succinctly.

“Good man,” de Curieux said. “You will read the international broadsheets.”

The last to receive an assignment was the New Zealander, Corporal Logan Winters, a broad-shouldered giant with a penchant for heavy arms. He got the tabloids.

They sat for days in the debriefing room in Wick, taking breaks only to go to the bathroom or return to their billets for sleep. On those few occasions Miller passed other members of the crew, they gave him a bewildered respect. Word of the incident in Vermont had not gone far in the traditional press, but it spread like wildfire in Wick and aboard The Renegade. Miller enjoyed the newfound respect where de Curieux was mildly annoyed. Still, the colonel held his protest when they all received free drinks at the Zeppel Inn.

In the end, it was de Curieux who found their next destination spot. Miller had been rubbing his eyes, wishing for once he could take a break from the computer and get back onto the engineering deck of The Renegade. O’Leary was amusing herself with cat photos on Twitter and Winters dozed, eyes open, in front of his computer. Even the straight-laced German struggled with the task, zealously drinking black coffee to ward off fatigue.

“Maine,” de Curieux said suddenly, sitting up with such haste he nearly knocked over his earl grey. “We go to Maine.”

He slammed down the thin newsprint in his hand, making a loud enough snap to awaken Winters. Miller nearly jumped out of his seat, earning him a raised eyebrow from O’Leary.

“Warum?” Hanover asked. “I mean, why? My apologies. I was reading the Frankfurter Allgemeine.”

De Curieux slid his newspaper across the long table. All four of them gathered around it as it came to a stop. It was, Miller thought, a pretty typical small town publication, The Rottsport Independent. The brightly colored advertisements were for mom-and-pop retailers and small operation service contractors--only the realty listings had the glitzy, professional feel. There were the usual photographs of a community events, but you couldn’t miss the double-decker headline: “Fourth body washes ashore, police release few details.”

Miller skimmed the article. It read like the author wasn’t used to writing about multiple fatalities. The few quotes came from a panicked-sounding town selectman, vowing to get to the bottom of it, and one or two of the locals theorizing that a fishing trawler might have gone down off the coast. Rogue waves and quick moving squalls weren’t unheard of, after all.

“The Atlantic doesn’t give up her dead lightly,” a fisherman was quoted as saying. “Could be days before the whole crew comes ashore. If they ever do at all.”

There as little to go on from the local authorities. Just that the bodies lacked identification. All of them suffered some form of mutilation, though whether it occured pre- or post-mortem remained unknown. The state police in Augusta were offering help in the investigation, but all the law enforcement officials played down the likelihood of a serial killer on the loose. The chief of police maintained there was a rational, if unfortunate, explanation.

“Grim stuff,” Hanover said.

“Just gross,” replied O’Leary.

“Awful,” Miller said.

Winters grunted.

“Indeed,” de Curieux said, an eyebrow raised. “I have not seen Maine in some time. The last time I was escorting a submarine.”

Miller sighed and rubbed his forehead. He looked around and saw that everyone was staring at him. His private objection had been noted.

“There’s not a lot to go on here,” he said. “A fishing boat going missing--hell, that stuff happens out there, every winter, especially. And I kinda figured Blackwood lit out for somewhere a long way away from New England. Plus, it’s not like they’re reporting seeing a zeppelin in the sky.”

“Reasonable objections, I will admit,” de Curieux said. “I, too, doubt it is Degory behind the appearance of these bodies. He is much more circumspect in disposing of incriminating evidence.”

“So what’s the tell?” O’Leary asked.

“A quote in the article,” de Curieux replied. “I recognize the name. Or the initials at least. We leave for Maine at once.”

“That’s still not a lot--” said Miller, who was seeing dreams of resting for a few more days falling apart. He stopped when he felt O’Leary’s elbow press against his side. He knew when to shut up.

“When does the Cessna leave?” she asked, releasing the pressure on Miller’s torso.

“Unfortunately, we must be even more discreet on this sojourn,” de Curieu said. “My understanding is that officials in the United States are not particularly pleased we attempted to ground The Grafvitnir alone. Apologies and extenuating circumstances notwithstanding, it is best if our presence is not known at all in America.”

He spread his hands and offered a thin smile.

“Fortunately, I have gathered quite the collection of noms de guerre in my time, all with the proper paperwork,” de Curieux said. “Unfortunately, we must remain circumspect. Lieutenant Hanover and Corporal Winters will not be accompanying us on this trip.”

            It was O’Leary’s turn to start protesting, but de Curieux cut her off.

            “We will not be going in cold, of course,” he said. “There is a subject matter expert I would very much like to have accompany us. Fortunately, he resides between Logan International Airport and Maine. We can pick him up on the way.”

            “Wait, we’re flying commercial?” O’Leary asked.

            “I’m sure we can arrange seat upgrades,” he replied. “I have a friend at Lufthansa.”

            “Why me, though?” Miller asked.

            De Curieux stared at him quizzically.

            “I should think it obvious. You have ties to the region and likely the deepest well of local knowledge,” he said, and then clapped his hands. “Now, please pack accordingly. We will reprise our roles as tourists.”

            He turned, precisely, and strode out of the room. Alone and in silence, they took turns staring at one another. Winters and Hanover seemed disappointed to have been grounded. O’Leary gave Miller a reproachful look.

            “So what do you know about Maine?”

            “I read a lot of Stephen King when I was a teenager,” he replied. “Ask me anything.”

Rottsport, Maine

Attempting desperately to look like a tourist, Miller cursed under his breathing. He was trying his best to make his sidearm disappear under his winter jacket and not succeeding. He was unaccustomed to carrying a firearm. Despite his lack of formal training, both O’Leary and de Curieux insisted he be prepared for all eventualities.

“Worst case, you just pass it over to me when I’m out of ammunition,” O’Leary had told him. Given his prowess with a gun, it sounded like a good idea, he thought.

On her, the snub-nosed Taurus PT111  vanished, disappearing into a waistband holster tucked under her fleece top. Miller had to marvel at her expertise: her lithe frame also concealed two knives of varying lengths and specialties, a burner phone, pack of cigarettes, multiple lighters, some sort of explosive and energy bars. To unwitting eyes, though, she looked like any other urbanite attempting to go rustic for the weekend, complete with a bottle of Poland Spring water poking out of her handbag.

Following her down the stair well, he briefly made eye contact with the sullen clerk at the desk, who just nodded at them before answering a ringing phone. His gaze rested on the pair until they departed into the cold afternoon.

“Slow down,” Miller called out, immediately stepping into a pile of half-frozen slush leftover from the town’s last snow. O’Leary ignored him, her feet clopping against the cobbled sidewalk of the downtown area. Like most remote New England fishing communities, the town was mostly a cluster of buildings along the short stretch of coast carved into a natural harbor by the beating ocean. In years past, a few farmers probably branched off inland and, in its heyday, two or more logging companies might have set up competing sawmills, shipping the finished wood by sea to Boston and New Bedford.

The cobblestone sidewalk was recent, though, machined too precisely to have been laid down by colonial forbearers. If Miller had to guess, the town probably paid for it and a few other refurbishments, like the green street clocks by way of a state or federal tourism grant. North of Bar Harbor, yet well south of the Canadian destination spots, Rottsport was well off the beaten path. Lobstermen and crabbers called a place like this home, no one else.

But O’Leary wasn’t having it. Nearly as soon as Miller caught up to her, she diverted down a side street toward the water. He nearly fell trying to make the cut.

“Better keep up, honey,” she called over her shoulder with a laugh. Miller rolled his eyes, but he sped up as she barreled into a weathered bar.

Stepping inside the Bait and Tackle, he paused a moment to let his eyes adjust. Even compared to the gray, fading light outside, the barroom was dark. A few worn pool tables sat beneath neon signs advertising various domestic beer brands. There was no television, just an old dial-operated radio propped up on the faded wooden bar. A few fishing trinkets adorned the walls out of respect to its name. There were the obligatory posters enjoining patrons to root for the Red Sox.

One other customer sat at the bar, a weathered-looking fellow in jeans and a worn leather jacket. A baseball cap rested beside him. He looked to have been in deep conversation with the barkeep, but the conversation had died as soon as the door swung open.

O’Leary pulled up a seat at the opposite end of the bar, sat and smiled coyly Miller. Refusing to engage, he grabbed the stool next to her. It was about as uncomfortable as he felt in the dingey watering hole.

His companion seemed more at home. O’Leary unabashedly waved at the bartender, calling him over. Despite his sullen response--the act of straightening up from his perch on the bar seemed belabored--she ordered for the both of them, asking for two beers from one of the popular microbreweries in Portland.

“I only keep that beer out back,” the barkeep answered, wording it to sound like fetching a pair of India pale ales involved traveling to the subcontinent for which they were named. “If you want something on tap, we have Bud, Bud Light and Coors.”

“The IPAs, please,” O’Leary said, twisting a lock of her roseate hair in her finger. Just like a tourist, Miller thought.

The bartender sighed, wiped his hands on his rag and disappeared into the rear of the building. Down at the far end of the bar, the only other patron took a swig out of a beer bottle.

Miller tried avoiding looking at him, but his eyes kept drifting back. The man was a curiosity, older than Miller, but muscular in the sinewy way men got from physical, outdoor work. His fingers, Miller saw, were cut and calloused. His skin was tanned, nearly enough to match the brown leather of his coat. But he did not seem a fisherman. Just a drifter with a lot of miles on the odometer.

The other man seemed to notice Miller’s gaze. A fine smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he took another sip from the bottle.

“You folks visiting for the weekend?” he asked in a scratchy voice, not looking their way. “Not a great time of year to tour the coast.”

“We’re looking at vacation homes,” O’Leary said, sounding a bit bored. “Thought we would check out the local culture.”

The handsome man chuckled softly.

“That’s a first in this town,” he said.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a faded, black leather wallet. He pulled a handful of crumpled dollars from it and tossed them haphazardly onto the bar.

“You might think about somewhere south of here, Camden or Rockport,” he said, standing up and grabbing his ball cap. “A little closer to civilization, you know? This place is a little rough around the edges.”

“Thank you for the advice,” O’Leary replied. “We’ll take our chances. We like rough around the edges.”

He stuck his ball cap on his head, nodded at them.

“It’s your life,” he said walking out. “Hope it works out for you.”

Alone again, O’Leary turned to Miller.

“Nice enough guy,” she said. “I’m starting to get a feel for New Englanders. They’re very caring.”

“Ayup,” Miller replied.

The bartender returned, ales in hand and looking slightly worse for wear. It was an act, of course, and in his effort to show how he was coddling the bottles, one slipped out and crashed onto the floor.

Swearing viciously, the barkeep glared at O’Leary and Miller as if it were their fault. He called out for a barback.

“Henries, get your ass out here,” he shouted, and presently a disgruntled-looking early twenty-something in a stained t-shirt and ragged pair of jeans appeared.

“Clean up this mess, would’ya,” the bartender said. “I got to run out back again and look for another beer.”

The kid sighed, but reached for a mop. But the bartender grabbed it.

“Find the damn dustpan first,” he snarled. “The glass. You’ll spread it everywhere with a mop. Pick up the goddamn glass.”

With a huff, the bartender disappeared into the back again, droplets of beer flying off his soaked apron as he went. That left O’Leary and Miller in the company of the kid, who was studiously ignoring them as he gingerly plucked glass from the floor. Miller could hear him mumbling under his breath, nothing pleasant from the sound of it.

“Hey, kid,” O’Leary said. “Your boss always this friendly?”

The kid glanced up as he dumped a few shards into the trash bin under the bar.

“That’s better than usual, actually,” he said. “Everyone in this town is a little off.”

“You from here?” Miller asked. He took a pull from the bottle and handed it over to O’Leary. They would have to share for the time being. It suited Miller fine; he was too anxious to enjoy the bitter ale.

“I’d say no, but it depends on what you mean,” the kid said. “My family is from a few towns over. A real town, not like this dump. I just come here to work. But to anyone south of Bangor, it’s probably all the same.”

O’Leary giggled. She seemed to like his attitude. At least she was enjoying herself, Miller thought.

“I don’t know if I’d call it a dump,” she said, smiling. “It’s a little quaint, sure.”

“It’s a dump,” the kid said flatly. “The state tried to fix it up a few years ago, but it didn’t take. You can paint over all you want, but this is the place all the druggies and drunks end up. Whenever something strange or awful happens up this way, it either happens here or comes from here, you know? Last year, they busted a cigarette smuggling ring. Can you believe that? They were bringing in Canadian cigarettes on fishing trawlers and selling them to get around the state tax.”

The kid shook his head.

“And this year we got the murders. It’s always something,” he said.

“Murders?” O’leary said in faux shock. She put a hand on her breast in mock disbelief. Miller fought back a nervous laugh.

“You didn’t hear? I figured it would have made the Boston news by now. Four bodies, all of them washed ashore,” the kid said, not picking up on O’Leary’s acting job. “The cops are playing cool, saying it might be a boating accident or something, but I don’t buy it.”

“What do you think?” Miller said, hoping his voice was even.

“I think it’s bullshit,” the kid said. “Like I said, there’s a lot of addicts and drunks here. They mostly come for fishing work or a place to set up shop in the summer--too much woods and too few cops to bust up all the camps. It’d be hard to tell if a few went missing.”

The kid stopped talking as the bartender bullied his way back through the door, a fresh India pale ale in hand. In a smooth motion, he popped the top and procured a pair of glasses for Miller and O’Leary. Then he glanced at the barely touched mess on the floor and began cursing the kid out.

“It’s all right,” O’Leary said, interjecting. “We were distracting him with questions. It’s our fault.”

That only made the bartender angrier. He slapped his towel against his hand menacingly.

“What did I tell you about bothering the customers,” he growled. “What’d you say?”

“It’s fine,” Miller said, holding out a hand. “We were bothering him.”

The bartender grumbled a few choice words under his breath and snapped the towel against his hand a few more times. He departed in a huff, mumbling about cleaning up in the back. An angry man, Miller thought, glancing out back toward the entrance.

And he froze. For a second, he thought his roving eye had caught a face in the dusty window, lined and grinning like a death head. It vanished as Miller squinted to make it out better. The chilling face vaguely reminded Miller of the man sitting at the bar.

“Hey kid,” he said. “I don’t want to get you in any more trouble, but who was that guy here when we got in? Seemed nice.”

“Don’t worry about it--I’m always in trouble. Maybe he’ll do me a favor and fire me,” the kid said. “I know the guy you’re talking about. He’ll be back later tonight. They call him a couple of different things, like the Ramblin’ Man, because he just showed up a few years ago, hitching up the coastline looking for work.”

The kid had picked up all the glass by now and was at work wiping the flooring down. He pulled a bottle of hardwood cleaner out from underneath the bar.

“He also goes by The Preacher Man, and that’s because he’s always quoting from the Bible. Doesn’t stop him from taking a girl home from here at all, though,” he said. “I saw him quoted in one of the newspapers as Rawson Fife, if that means anything to you. He’s just another weird dude in this weird town, as far as I care.”

The kid shrugged.

“Everyone seems to like him, though. Hasn’t done me wrong, but he doesn’t tip well, either.”

“Well, here you go, kid,” O’Leary said, handing him a ten-dollar bill. “For helping out a couple of tourists.”

“Ah, you don’t have to,” the kid said, but the cash disappeared quickly. “It was nice talking to normal people for once.”

O’Leary nodded knowingly and left a twenty on the counter for the barkeep. She tapped Miller on the shoulder and they quickly walked out, not saying a word. The two half finished beers rested on the bar behind them. Outside, night was beginning to fall. It was just shy of four o'clock in the afternoon.

Feeling watched, Miller glanced over his shoulder. He saw nothing but lengthening shadows. The streets were empty. He turned back to O’Leary.

“Learn anything?” he asked.

“Just that I really don’t like this town,” she said. “I’ll feel better when we get back to the hotel.”

They hurried down the street a bit, only slowing when they saw the neon sign proclaiming vacancy to the still night. O’Leary led and held the door open for Miller. As he caught it, he took one last glance around.

About fifty yards down the street, he saw a figure. It was leaning against one of the spruced-up lampposts, but in such a manner that his face was obscured by shadows. Only the red glow of a cigarette broke the darkness.

But Miller recognized the coat, and the outline of a ballcap. He hurriedly slipped into the hotel, making sure the door was secured behind him.

After nodding at the still dour clerk, Miller hurried up the stairs. He reached her as she was opening the hotel room door. It swung open and suddenly the two of them were staring down the barrel of a gun.

“I believe,” de Curieux said. “I requested that you remain in the hotel until I returned.”

He placed the odd-looking revolver, large and bespoke--to the extent it was seemingly handmade--back into its ornate sandalwood box.

“You said enjoy the view,” O’Leary said.

De Curieux motioned toward the window. In the dark, only the lights of the berthed vessels were visible.

“Was it obscured in some manner?” he asked mildly.

“I figured we would get a better view on the ground,” O’Leary said.

Her arms crossed over her chest, she clearly had dug in for a fight. Miller, too busy trying to convince his heart to stop racing, was in no mood and remained silent. Even the “I told you so” on his tongue lacked vigor.

“And, in turn, you got a very intimate view of a beautifully crafted revolver,” de Curieux replied. “Count your blessings that was all of it that you saw.”

But he had made his point. There was no anger in his tone. Imperceptibly, O’Leary relaxed. Miller felt his pulse return to normal. The only person in the room still outwardly shocked was the thin, anxious man sitting on one of the two beds in the room. He looked, Miller thought, positively aghast. All throughout the terse standoff, his mouth had flapped open and shut with nary a sound emerging.

“Colonel, you might have killed someone,” he finally stuttered out.

Miller regarded the diminutive man with slight exasperation. That he had, just moments ago, been expecting a lead slug to shred through his flesh, was completely forgotten. The specter of Death had become a regular companion on his travels with de Curieux.

“Never, Winchester,” de Curieux replied soothingly. “I am the very soul of caution.”          

The trio had picked up the pale man in one of the storied coastal towns of Essex County, just north of Boston. The colonel had taken the small rental car off the highway and zipped along several winding country roads before coming to a stop at an imposing clapboard house straight from a Hawthorne novel. The military attaché had excused himself and left to knock on the door.

Cornelius Winchester emerged shortly thereafter, unsuccessfully juggling multiple suitcases and at least one trunk. He was not the sort of subject matter expert either of them expected.

Winchester, who described himself as an anthropology lecturer with an interest in the history of spiritualism and the occult, began talking immediately. He kept on for nearly four hours, not noticing much of his conversation sailed over the heads of O’Leary and Miller in the backseat. Several times he paused, but only to thank de Curieux again for allowing him to accompany them on the expedition. It was a dream, he said, to work alongside such a renowned scholar--despite the accusations made in certain circles.

They made one other stop, after de Curieux made introductions, at a storage facility just across the border in New Hampshire. He had returned, clutching the sandalwood box lovingly. Winchester, undeterred by the colonel’s comings and goings, continued on about polymath Oliver Lodge’s early twentieth-century experiments concerning the ether.

The standoff in the hotel room entry way was the first time Miller could recall being in Winchester’s presence and not listening to him pontificating.

“The revolver, though, is that…?” Winchester asked.

“The situation may have called for it. The situation may still call for it,” de Curieux replied. “Did you not agree when we spoke by phone?”

“I did,” Winchester said. “But I did not believe you would have such an artifact readily available. I mentioned it only in jest--I believed it to have been lost for decades, if not an outright fabrication.”

Miller looked at O’Leary. She shrugged.

“Boys with their toys,” she said. “If I had a nickel for every guy I met on The Renegade who had a name and a backstory for his gun, I could buy my own pirate zeppelin.”

“Indeed,” de Curieux replied. “Did you learn anything of note on your adventures?”

“Just that this town is full of angry yankees,” O’Leary said. “We just stopped in at the local bar down the street. I don’t recommend it.”

The sergeant quickly recounted their exploits at the Bait and Tackle. De Curieux nodded along in interest. Winchester attempted to interject a few times, but quieted when the colonel raised his hand.

But when Miller rounded out the report with his mention of the stranger at the bar, de Curieux stopped him.

“Rawson Fife?”

“The barback said he also went by the Ramblin’ Man or the Preacher Man, if that means anything,” Miller said.

“Describe him.”

“Average height, slim build, almost too thin, like he was strung out or something,” Miller said. “Scratchy voice, slight shadow of a beard.”

“Unkempt, but in the way you’d expect a working guy to be after a shift,” O’Leary said. “Handsome that way, too. It must have been his attitude or the way he spoke. I mean, what he said was creepy, but there was a confidence in his voice.”

Miller glanced at her.

“The kid said he was popular with the women,” she said, looking back at him evenly. “It’s all about how you carry yourself.”

“I think I saw him watching us through the window after he left,” Miller said. “And I swear he was smoking a butt outside of the hotel when we got in. Guy gives me the creeps, handsome or not.”

“Rawson Fife,” Winchester said slowly, turning the name over in his mouth. “Could it be?”

“It could and likely is,” de Curieux said. “And I believe he has taken a shine to my companions.”

He wandered back over to the sandalwood box and laid down his hand. For a moment, he stared at the inlaid carvings.

“I am happy to have pressed this revolver back into service, but I had hoped we would not need it,” he said.

De Curieux’s gaze returned to Miller and O’Leary.

“Your jaunt was certainly more fruitful than ours,” he said. “I apologize if I spoke out of turn earlier. It seems your adventure has aided us immensely.”

“No worries,” O’Leary said. “What’s our next move?”

“I believe this Rawson Fife has marked the two of you,” de Curieux said. “Since we have the bait, we might as well build a trap.”

That Miller fell into a fitful sleep was putting it mildly. The colonel outlined what he and Winchester had uncovered in their travels through the region with the rental car. The first stop had been to the police station, where pulling the reports for each of the bodies should not have been a problem, yet it involved a surprising amount of delays. When they arrived, the photocopied documents, far more descriptive than the newspaper accounts, detailed the mutilated corpses. It was not the work of animal scavengers, de Curieux told them.

Winchester, for his part, assured them that the mutilation was highly artistic and would have been considered extremely tasteful by the worshippers of the particular cults that had practiced the art in their heydays. O’Leary was quicker than Miller in telling him to stuff it.

Next they had gone through the town’s history in the local library, splitting the poorly written accounts collected by local historians and government records between the two of them. Much of it rang familiar to Miller. Rottsport was settled in the century before the Revolutionary War, though it was known originally as New Nebo. The town flourished, mostly because it was led by men with dreams of making a fortune in the New World rather than their cousins to the south, who were focused on eternal salvation. As such, the founders of New Nebo welcomed any strong-bodied man willing to work hard, including ne’er-do-wells, accused pirates and other men of ill-repute.

But when witch fever swept the Massachusetts Bay Colony, New Nebo was not spared. Nearly twenty men, women and children died before it subsided. Although the local accounts glossed over this portion of the history, it seemed clear the accusations, investigations and executions continued well after the more famous incident in Salem.

At this point in the story, Winchester attempted to speak up. But a cold look from de Curieux returned him to silence.

Rottsport was formally incorporated following the Civil War and hung on. It would never be a tourist destination, despite at least one attempt to open a casino in the dying years of the nineteenth century. Instead, the town made its fortune the way its founders might have endorsed: smuggling, offshore gambling, bootlegging, weapons trafficking and, later, illegal fishing, hunting and logging. Local opinion columns chalked up the more recent economic woes to government regulation, do-gooders in Augusta and nosey interlopers from the Justice Department.

A few columns in the local paper, though, predicted good times ahead, de Curieux said. None presented any evidence to back up the prognostication, though.

“So what?” O’Leary had asked. “What’s any of that got to do with anything?”

“Well, the witch trials likely stem from a rift between the Puritans settling in any safe harbor in New England and the local economics. Coupled with the following harsh economic downturn, there is evidence to indicate the backlash stemmed from more than just mere hysteria, after all--”

“--Not the time and place for an academic thesis, Winchester,” de Curieux had said, cutting off the lecturer.

“But it is quite interesting. All of it.”

“Granted,” de Curieux said. “And your expertise has been invaluable. We must, however, focus on more practical matters.”

He turned back to Miller and O’Leary.

“I believe this Rawson Fife may have tapped into local lore,” he said. “In return for letting him get away with despicable acts, the townspeople--those who matter, at least--may have been promised good times ahead.”

“They’re that dumb?” O’Leary asked.

“Optimistic, perhaps, or desperate,” de Curieux replied. “Willful ignorance is a powerful tool.”

“All for better fishing hauls, that’s insane,” Miller said. “Why would Fife want to do any of this?”

“My guess is Fife has different motivations and likely a different goal,” de Curieux said. “He may be using this as an excuse to cover more nefarious work for Blackwood. He may be a killer, plain and simple.”

De Curieux glanced at the sandalwood box.

“And he may be something else altogether.”

After explaining the trap he had concocted, de Curieux bid them all to sleep. They would need their strength in the day to come, he warned them.

So Miller slept, sharing one of the two beds with Winchester, who began snoring immediately. O’Leary, possessing of that priceless gift of the ability to sleep under any conditions, fell quiet. Only de Curieux remained awake, sipping a glass of scotch and pouring over the photocopies procured at the police department.

Eventually, Miller drifted off. He was awakened sometime later, by a scuffling sound emanating from the foot of the door. At first, he assumed it was a bad dream. But the soft, probing noise continued. He shot up, eyes blinking rapidly.

“Quiet, if you please, Mr. Miller,” whispered de Curieux.

It took a second for his eyes to adjust, but Miller made out his silhouette sitting in a desk chair. The colonel was facing the door.

Miller slid out of the bed. The noise stopped. And then resumed again, a little more forcefully this time.

He heard a click, the sound of metal on metal. Despite the darkness, Miller could see the heft of the revolver in de Curieux’s hand.

A shadow flitted beneath the doorway, temporarily obscuring the light from the hallway. Miller saw the oblong shape of the gun trace its movements.

“What is it?” he whispered, approaching de Curieux.

“A scouting party, I assume,” the colonel replied. 

A squeaking at the door caught both of their attention. Miller watched the handle turn slightly. De Curieux leaned forward in his chair, the revolver now raised to eye level.

Weight pressed against the door. Miller involuntarily held his breath. A series of clicks indicated that the locking mechanism had held. A shuffling thump followed, which Miller took to be frustration. The shadow in the doorway flitted away.

De Curieux leaned back, relaxing the hammer of the revolver. He and Miller exhaled the same way.

“It has been that way, off and on, all night,” de Curieux said, his voice tired.

“If you want to switch off standing watch…” Miller said.

“No need. I am quite used to lack of sleep,” de Curieux said. He raised the heavy revolver in the air.

“I have the best chance of stopping interlopers, anyway.”

“It’s an interesting weapon,” Miller said. “I don’t know that I have seen one like that outside of a museum or a movie. Maybe a comic book.”

“They prefer the term ‘graphic novel,’” de Curieux said, and Miller heard the thin smile in his voice. “Stories have attached themselves to weapons time immemorial. This custom-made revolver is no different. It once was held by a good, if sorely tested man. Through this man’s travails, the gun became legendary. It is said to possess some extraordinary qualities, although I have not had the opportunity to test the rumors. Regardless, it serves its primary purpose remarkably well despite its age.”

“How do you get your hands on a piece like that?” Miller asked.

“If you live long enough--and dangerously enough--peculiar objects are bound to cross your palms,” de Curieux said. “Although I have abhorred firearms for many years, I could not turn down this specimen.”

“I’d like to hear the stories about it,” Miller said.

“And I would be happy to share it, time permitting, although I would wager that you know much of it already,” de Curieux said. He motioned with his free hand back toward the beds.

“I would suggest trying to get a bit more sleep before the day’s festivities begin. Do not fear, we are quite safe at the moment.”

Miller did not know that he believed de Curieux. But he trusted him, and that was enough.

TO BE CONTINUED