by JG Faherty
After that, it was a matter of waiting. I remained at the desk, ostensibly continuing to work on my route into Old Innsmouth, in the hopes I might suddenly remember something. Flannery alternated between pacing and staring out the windows. Every so often a citizen would come in to report a missing person or the sighting of a mysterious figure. Flannery would take their statement, promise to investigate, and then add the location to the several dozen already noted on our map.
Slowly, I grew aware of a pattern – or rather, a series of them. One group of disappearances seemed confined to a ten-block area between the waterfront and the Federal Street Bridge near the center of town. Another was at the far end of town, near the hospital and the Place of Hawks Bridge. A third was well to the south, bordered by Elliot Street and Federal Street, and nowhere close to the river.
The more I stared at the map, the more the patterns didn’t make sense. The neighborhoods along the river? Yes. Those areas had both bridges and underground streams within them. But how would my father or his creatures get all the way to southeast Innsmouth, with its fancy homes and lack of commercial buildings, without being noticed?
Finally, I called Flannery over.
“Look at this.” I tapped each of the circles I’d made, indicating the clusters of disappearances. “It makes no logical sense.”
After listening to my thoughts – or lack of them – on the patterns, the inspector scratched at his beard and scowled at the map, as if by sheer force of will he might get it to reveal its secrets.
“That’s the road to Ipswich,” he said eventually, pointing at Elliot Street. “And that’s the way to Arkham.” He shifted his finger to Federal Street.
“Yes.” I unrolled another map. “Both lead south. They have that in common. But neither is close to the river.”
My frustration got the better of me and I stabbed my pen down so hard the nib broke and ink blotted the paper. Cursing, I pulled out my handkerchief and dabbed it away, blurring the lines of the grand neighborhoods Flannery and I had passed through on our way to Miskatonic University in Arkham just a few days—
Arkham.
I stopped, my hand in midair.
That was it! Arkham. On the banks of the Miskatonic River.
“Hand me a pen.” I returned to my original map. Suddenly it dawned on me. The pattern. How could I have been such a fool not to see it before?
“What is it?”
“My father. Surely he’s Satan himself, the father of lies. He tricked me. Not once, but twice.”
“How so?”
I took the pen Flannery held out and drew a line connecting the three concentrations of incidents. One to the east of town central, one to the west, and one to the south.
“See? Three points of a triangle. And in the middle…” I circled the area, “…the center of town. He’s been right under our damned feet the entire time.”
The inspector’s eyebrows rose. “Are you saying this cave you saw is directly below us?”
“Either that or close by. Most definitely on our side of the Manuxet.”
I explained my line of reasoning. “He purposely led me across the Water Street Bridge that night, into Old Innsmouth. Not because he wanted me to follow him to his lair, but rather because he wanted to lead me away from it. He injected me with something in that basement, rendered me unconscious. And then used the sewer tunnels to bring me back to this side of the river.”
“How can you be so sure?” Flannery was staring at the map again, turning it this way and that.
“The pattern. I couldn’t understand it until I included Arkham. That’s where he fell into the river when the asylum collapsed. And that’s how he was able to travel to the university, kill Gardiner, and retrieve the book. All without being seen. There must be a fourth river, an underground one that connects the Manuxet and Ipswich rivers and then flows down to meet the Miskatonic near Arkham. I’ll bet a dime it parallels the road from here to the university, or close to it.”
It galled me to think we’d been standing over my father’s hideaway this entire time, had traveled above his underground waterway when we’d made our trip to Miskatonic University. Oh, how he must have been laughing at us!
“And where would that place this cave of yours?”
I thought about that. Closed my eyes, tried to remember everything I’d seen while down in that abhorrent pit. The river had been deep and wide. There’d been no sounds other than the flowing water, which could mean either vacant streets above or too much earth for noise to pass through. The smell of rotten fish and briny water clung to everything, a foul miasma formed from the demon and her ilk that made it hard to breathe.
Or had there been another source of that stench?
“Rivers tend to be salty near the coast, because of the tides.”
“Of course they do.” Flannery rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows that. You think he’s under the waterfront? How? That area’s so busy someone would have—”
I waved at him to be quiet. I needed to concentrate. I had the answer, right there at the tip of my tongue…
Salt water. River. Cavern.
Cave.
“Caves!” I shouted it. “That’s the answer.
Pulling the map close, I ran my finger down the coastline, from Newburyport to Gloucester. “Caves. This whole area is riddled with them, where the sea has carved into the bedrock. But they’re not deep. And you don’t find them inland. But along the coast, where the Ipswich and Manuxet join and dump into the ocean….”
I drew a rough circle across a section of Innsmouth, enclosing a small area between Federal Street, the waterfront district, and the Manuxet River. Right in the middle of one of the patterns we’d previously mapped.
And near the center of that new circle?
I gasped when I realized what I was looking at.
My street.
Everything became so clear, even as my vision clouded over, obscured by a red rage. My father’s uncanny ability to know my every move. The ease with which his dead soldiers found me at the pub. The attack at the morgue. All within two or three streets of each other.
He’d been toying with me the entire time! How long had he kept his eyes on me before our encounter in the fog? Days? Weeks?
Months?
“So that’s where you’ve been,” I whispered. “Now I know.”
Something touched my shoulder and I jumped. Flannery’s hand. For once, he wasn’t looking at me with anger or hatred in his eyes. This time, I saw only compassion.
He’d understood the significance of that circle as well.
“Don’t you worry, Gilman. We’ll find him. And this time we’ll send him and his monsters back to the fires of hell for good.”
It should have been a distressing moment for me. A child planning patricide. Yet that’s what we were doing and I harbored no guilt, no remorse. Not even when I answered Flannery.
“I want to be the one who does it.”
Chapter Nineteen
The sun was just brightening the horizon when we received the news we’d been waiting for.
One of Flannery’s men, a thin, gray-haired veteran named Hanson, returned to the station reeking of stagnant water and human waste, his clothes soaked and his face coated in filth. He’d spotted a group of men entering a catch basin on Bank Street, right near the hospital.
“Followed ’em down, nice and quiet, just like you ordered, Inspector,” Hanson said. “Goddamn water stinks of shit and dead fish. The tunnel led to a river, just like Mr. Gilman said it would. Wide as the Manuxet, it is. The footprints on the bank went east, toward the harbor.”
“I knew it.” I traced my finger along the map. Bank Street became Pain Street in the center of town, and then State Street in the warehouse district. And it ended right at Water Street and the wharfs.
“I’ll bet other catch basins
join with it as well. We’ve got our entry point, Inspector.”
“All right, then.” Flannery’s voice took on the authoritative, rather pompous tone I was more familiar with. “Send the word out to the men to get some rest or food and be back here in three hours.”
“Aye, and a change of clothes.” Hanson exited, leaving Flannery and me alone once more.
“That goes for us too, Gilman,” the inspector said. “A little shut-eye and a meal. Just what the doctor ordered.”
We donned our coats and went outside, where the morning sun had started burning off the fog and people were beginning to fill the sidewalks, heading to work or market. Flannery tipped his hat to me and flagged down a hansom. As the taxi rolled away, it struck me that I had no idea where he lived. Based on his manner of dress and attitude, I envisioned a comfortable brownstone somewhere in the center of the city, not a man of wealth by any means but firmly middle class. Never any worries about paying his bills or putting food on the table.
The way my life had been before my mother’s cancer and my bastard father’s actions stole it all away.
I stood there at the corner for a moment, pinned in place by indecision. I didn’t want to go home – if I went to bed now, I’d most likely sleep the entire day away. Should I ride across town to the hospital and check on Flora? It was still quite early, and she needed her sleep. Besides, that would leave no time to follow the second part of Flannery’s advice. Fill my belly, which had begun a constant grumbling well before sunup.
An army fights better on a full stomach.
I’d heard that somewhere. And no mistake, we were going to war in a few hours. Sleep might be impossible, but food wasn’t.
After checking my billfold, I decided to treat myself to a proper breakfast, something I hadn’t done in…I couldn’t remember how long. Unpredictable work hours and low finances usually had me making coffee and perhaps an egg at home, or picking up a small pastry on the way to work.
Considering it might be my last meal, I decided it ought to be a fine one.
I located a restaurant nearby and ordered a veritable feast: eggs fried in butter, toast and jam, a cup of porridge, sausages, and a fruit assortment. Accompanied by coffee, served with both cream and sugar. My repast cost me a full day’s wages, but I enjoyed every mouthful while I perused the newspaper.
The headlines screamed about the rash of disappearances. On page two, the editor called upon the mayor and his council to do something or come election time they might see themselves on the breadlines. The rest of the paper held the typical news of the day, as if the city wasn’t falling apart around us. The St. Louis Browns continued to win. A fire in Boston claimed the lives of thirty factory workers. The Yellow Kid’s latest antics gave me a chuckle, despite the fact that I rarely read cartoons. By the time I finished both meal and paper, two hours had passed and I felt enervated and more than a little ill. Hardly what I’d call ready for battle.
To combat the lethargy brought on by lack of sleep and a full belly, I went for a walk, first down Waite Street and eventually over to South Street, with the idea of getting a look at the catch basin where we’d be making our entry in a short while.
I half expected to find Flannery there, doing whatever it is police officers do when preparing for a raid. But the place was empty except for the carcass of a dead cat, its body bulging from decomposition and its fur missing in several places.
Seeing the rotting corpse engendered a strong turmoil in my lower belly. I doubled over and vomited my breakfast onto the cold sidewalk. A bout of violent retching followed, as my stomach attempted to purge every last drop of bile and acid. A pair of men in factory clothes cast knowing looks my way, no doubt taking me for some habitual drunk just coming home from an all-night bender. I certainly looked the part, with my eyes red and sunken from lack of sleep and my clothes disheveled from working all night.
I straightened with a groan. Every muscle from chest to hips felt tight to the point of snapping. The remains of my breakfast mocked me, money wasted, literally tossed away. My body wanted nothing more than to spend the next twelve hours on my mattress. My brain agreed, because sleep meant escaping my terror.
Go home. Bathe yourself.
A sensible idea. Some cold water and a change of clothing might perk me up. Except when I checked my watch, I discovered I needed to be back at the station in an hour. Not even enough time to walk to my house and back, let alone scrub the aches from my body and the vomit from my tongue.
Instead, I returned to the precinct house and washed myself as best I could in a tiny lavatory that stunk of old piss and man-sweat. I was toweling my face with some suspect linens when I heard Flannery call out for me.
“You look like hell,” he said, as I entered his office. He, of course, looked quite the dandy with his fresh suit and hair shining with pomade.
“Let’s just get on with it.”
Flannery nodded, unperturbed by my grousing. “The men are assembling outside. Thirty of them, armed with pistols and plenty of ammunition. We’ve also got several gallons of kerosene. When we get down there, we stick to the plan. Shoot anything that moves and then set the place on fire.”
“Make sure they know to aim for the head,” I reminded him.
“Aye. They’ve been told. No quarter. Kill first and ask questions later.”
“What about…the thing I saw? In the river.” I couldn’t bring myself to call it what my father had: Mother.
“Kerosene burns well enough on the water. We’ll roast that abomination.”
He motioned for me to follow him. I grabbed my coat and hat and we exited the station. Three paddy wagons and a carriage waited.
“Let’s be off,” Flannery shouted at the drivers. He climbed into the carriage with me close at his heels. It wasn’t lost on me that in the space of a day and night I’d gone from pariah to the inspector’s right-hand man, thanks to what I knew. A fine pair we were. Him using me and me using him in the same manner, as the means to a shared end. The death of my father and the beast controlling him.
Neither of us spoke during the ride, both lost in our own thoughts. I assumed his involved strategies for the coming battle, but what did I know? Behind that perpetual scowl he might just be cursing the very same sour stomach that currently afflicted me.
When we arrived at the catch basin, Flannery ordered two men to remove the lid with a pry bar while the rest of the officers checked their weapons, no doubt thinking the same thing as I: my father’s henchmen had lifted that heavy lid with their bare hands. That spoke of immense strength. And soon we’d be going up against those same men.
Three pale-faced officers stood to one side, foreheads beaded with sweat. Flannery pointed at the packages they held.
“Explosives,” he said. “Enough to bring down a building or two if need be. You’re not the only one that knows how to take care of a demon.”
I questioned him on that, but he shook his head and cautioned me to stand clear of the trio, advice I quickly heeded. I didn’t envy the poor sods. One misstep with a match and we’d have a major disaster on our hands.
Not that we’d likely know, the end would happen so fast.
Two dozen men descended into the tunnel in pairs, with Hanson, the man who’d located the lair, and his partner in the lead. Flannery, myself, and six officers toting containers of kerosene brought up the rear. When it came time for us to climb down, the stench of human waste and rotting garbage nearly sent my guts into spasms again. Except for his face turning redder than usual, Flannery seemed unaffected by the detestable odors. He disappeared into the gloom and then it was my turn.
My legs and arms shook as I lowered myself into the hole. Visions of walking corpses waiting in the darkness filled my head. We’d prepared for the possibility of a trap, the very reason why Flannery had sent so many armed men down first. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that my curs
ed father remained one step ahead of us, despite how carefully we’d planned. The man had been a genius in life; God only knew what kind of animal cunning the demon’s corruption had added to his powerful intellect.
Frigid sewer water soaked my shoes and cuffs, the icy burn diverting my attention away from my musings. Although the water was only a little more than ankle-deep, the bitter cold sent shivers through me. Flannery drew his electric torch and we moved forward, following the shadowy forms of the men ahead of us. A few muttered curses echoed off the stone walls, followed by shushing admonitions, which the gruesome surroundings rendered into reptilian hisses.
I drew my coat tighter and did my best to ignore thoughts of the foul waters corrupting my skin. Heaven only knew what kinds of diseases we were wading through. Dysentery, typhoid, leprosy, my mind provided. I promised myself a long, hot bath – maybe two – when this was all over. Damn the cost.
Of course, I’d need every penny in order to get myself and Flora out of Innsmouth when—
Wait!
My heart soared and I nearly laughed aloud as a sudden thought came to me.
The town council had offered a reward for anyone who helped the police capture the Fish Street Strangler. One hundred dollars. And here I was not only helping in the capture, it was my information and aid that had led the police to his very lair, had in fact identified him and his nefarious plan for them. I’d done everything except shoot him myself, and that might very well happen before the day ended.
If anyone deserved that reward, it was me. One hundred dollars was ten weeks’ salary, more than enough to get us started somewhere like Boston or even Manhattan.
