Wyatt, Richard

by Fathers of Myth

  Kelly smiles and tries to hold back a chuckle. My face shows my embarrassment.

  “Oh, don’t be so serious. I’m just giving you a bad time. You think this is the first time I ever thought you smelled bad? She continues to giggle.

  “I’m too tired to hear this,” I reply. I turn and walk toward my desk.

  “Oh come on, you big baby.” She pats me on the back.

  “Look, I’ll make it up to you. Let me take you out to lunch today, OK?”

  I arrive at my desk and sit down.

  “That sounds like a deal,” I turn on my computer.

  “But if I am asleep when you come by, just give me a jab.”

  “I’ll come by around 11:30 OK? See ya then.” She waves and then she is off.

  I force myself to go over to the lunchroom and grab a hot cup of coffee. I arrive in front of the coffeepot, finding only a small quantity of long-abandoned, God-forsaken black coagulated liquid in the pot. I decide to take some of the viscid elixir back with me anyway. Sitting back down at my desk I try to pull myself together. My face feels like numb pie dough. I rub and knead my eyes in an effort to provoke them back to the vivacity of life.

  As I take a big slug of the thick nasty-tasting magic potion, a shadow descends over my desk. I slowly look up till I see Lloyd’s sneering face peering down at me, with his arms folded in protest.

  “Good morning, Lloyd, how’s every little thing?”

  “If I am going to pay you to go off to Costa Rica on a search for a story, I would like some kind of story for my money; if that wouldn’t be too much to ask,” Lloyd greets me in a calm but belligerent manner.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were paying for my trip to Costa Rica out of your own pocket, Lloyd. That is awfully generous. I didn’t realize you had that kind of faith in my work,” I am as sarcastic as possible.

  “Even if you have to make up some kind of Costa Rican jungle fairy tale, I would like something on my desk by deadline today. Is that clear?” he commands, in an attempt to assert his authority.

  The day deteriorates from unendurable to sheer torture, far worse than I could have imagined. I should have gone home and on to bed. I struggle all morning trying to decide just how to write about my Costa Rican escapade. Between the thoughts of my illusory foe that wants to kill me and Lloyd Hatch who would really like to fire me, by 11:30 all I have is a title and the first sentence.

  It reads: ‘Does NASA tell us everything they know?’

  ‘I met a man in Costa Rica that says that NASA is too afraid to tell us the truth.’

  There is just no way that I am going to finish this by deadline if I stop for lunch, besides I’ve got all the other work that has piled up while I was in Costa Rica. I decide to call Kelly and cancel our lunch date. Thankfully, she is disappointed but understanding.

  Shortly after five, I walk into Lloyd’s office with my finished story copy. The first thing that has gone right today; Lloyd’s absence from his office. I flop down on his desk, what I think is a well-written tale of my hair-raising adventures in the jungle of Costa Rica, most of it is true.

  I did try to leave out some of those facts of the story that might tend to get me killed. Still, enough truth has been left behind to hang me, if someone has strong enough intent. Unfortunately, I am pretty certain that Riker’s killer, as well as my own personal sinister perpetrator, has plenty of intent.

  All of a sudden I have the feeling of flight. I’ve got to get out of this building before I collapse.

  Before I can gather my things and bolt to the exit elevators, Betty’s plebeian voice pierces the air.

  “Matt, you gotta important call on line two. Matt, line two.”

  My first reaction is to ignore the call and get out of this place. Then I change my mind. It may be Lloyd wanting to wish me a good evening, I cynically tell to myself.

  “Hello, this is Matt. How can I help you?”

  “Oh Mr. Brooks. I’m so sorry,” my cleaning lady Irene, hysterically tries to communicate between her sobs and weeping gasps.

  “Irene?”

  “I don’t know what happened. I just came home and found him in the cage. I just don’t know what could have…”

  “Irene wait, tell me what’s wrong.”

  I hear her pause, sob and gasp one more time, then the sound of her blowing her nose.

  “Irene, Irene are you there?”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Brooks. I’m, I’m OK now.” It is followed by a deep breath.

  “I dropped by your apartment to deliver some of your linens I took home to wash. When I opened the door I found Cashew in his cage...” Her voice begins to crack with emotion once again.

  “Now Irene, don’t start that again.”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Brooks, but Cashew is dead.”

  “What do you mean ‘dead’? Did he get sick while I was gone or eat something bad or what?” I ask in shock.

  “Someone must have broken into the apartment. I found Cashew with twine wrapped around his little neck, hanging inside from the top of the cage.”

  “Why in the world would somebody come into my apartment and hang my bird?” I ask in disbelief.

  “I don’t know Mr. Brooks, I just don’t know. There is one more thing Mr. Brooks.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I found a note tied to Cashew.”

  “A note? What kind of a note, what does it say?”

  “It says, ‘You’re next Mr. Brooks.’ Do you know what that means?”

  The words sink into my head like a hot knife. Cashew was killed as a warning to me; a warning from the killer himself. He was inside my apartment and left me a message in a way he knew I couldn’t ignore. He symbolically killed Cashew the same way he killed Riker; by hanging.

  “All right Irene. I’m sorry you had to see such a thing. Just leave him where he is and I’ll take care of him when I get home.”

  “OK Mr. Brooks. I’m so sorry.”

  “I know, I know. Thank you for calling me. I know it wasn’t easy for you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Brooks.” Staring at the floor in numb disbelief, I push myself up from my desk and head for the exit once again. Again I hear Betty’s voice come over the intercom system.

  “Mr. Brooks. I gotta another call for ya on line one. Mr. Brooks, line one.” I turn around and head back to my desk with a vengeance.

  “Hello, this is Matt. Who is this?” A moment of silence is all I get in response.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Brooks. I read your article in The Herald.” A man labors his gravelly voice over the phone.

  “What article are you talking about, sir?”

  “I’m talking about the newspaper article with the photos of a certain man. You know the one that asks the question, ‘Do you know this man?’ Very interesting reading.”

  “Who is…?” I stop in the middle of my question. It’s him, the same man that murdered Riker. It is the same man that has seemingly escaped from Hades just to menace and threaten my life; the same man that has just killed my friend Cashew. It’s him on the line.

  I find no words that will come to my mouth. I feel choked with shock.

  “If you want to know the real story about the man in those photos Mr. Brooks, I would be willing to talk with you,” he continues.

  My mind races in a thousand different directions. What to say? What to think? What to do? Does he really think I don’t realize that it is him on the phone?

  Why is he calling me, as if he is just some kind of benevolent covert informer? No doubt he is performing an insidious plan of lure, to bait me to some dark corner where he has the definite upper hand. I decide to play along.

  “So, you think you know who this man is, huh?”

  “Oh most definitely Mr. Brooks. I’m sure that I can tell you everything you want to know about the man in those photos, things that have never been revealed before.”

  “Uh huh OK, well at least tell me your name.”

  �
��Not on the phone Mr. Brooks. If you’re interested in knowing more than you ever did before, you’ll have to meet me somewhere secluded and quiet.”

  ‘Secluded and quiet’ Oh I’m sure what he has in mind is secluded and quiet, since that would be the most favorable habitat for a murder.

  “Where did you have in mind?” I ask.

  “Do you know where Hong Kong Avenue is in China Town?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Turn right off of First Street onto Hong Kong. Go one block towards the riverfront, until you come to an alley street called Chin Hoi Street. Walk to the end of the alley until you come to twenty-nine an a half Chin Hoi; I’ll meet you there at 6:00 PM sharp. It is a very unassuming place Mr. Brooks, so dress casual,” he muses.

  “I’m not sure I can get there by 6:00. What about…?”

  “6:00 PM Mr. Brooks, or not at all,” he interrupts. “Don’t be late, I’ll be expecting you.” Before I can say another word, I hear a click and then the sound of the dial tone. I hang up the phone and sit there and meditate for a moment.

  I knew it would come to this sooner or later. I knew there would have to be a showdown with this man who has become my own personal human juggernaut monster.

  I remember when I was five or six years old, I used to believe that there lived a monster in my closet. Each night I would beg my mother to make the monster in the closet go away. Being the good mother that she was, each night she would come into my room and pretend she was chasing the monster out. After the monster was gone she would kiss me tenderly on the cheek. I would feel all cozy and safe inside once again and would fall quickly off to sleep.

  One night I called my mother in to chase the monster out of the closet again. But this time my mother said ‘no’. She said that it was time that I faced my fears. She made me walk to the closet, open the closet door, and see for myself that the only thing that inhabited my closet was the fears inside my mind. I was seven years old. Ever since then, I go to sleep each night without even thinking about the closet.

  Now, it is time for me to meet another monster. I need to go meet him face to face, so I can go on with my life. The thing is I think this monster is for real this time. Come what may, I need to open the door and see what this monster is all about.

  Walking towards the exit once again I see Betty, her purse in arm, about ready to leave for the evening

  “Betty, do you know if Kelly is still here or not?”

  “She told me about an hour ago, she was gonna be down in the dark room, if anybody should want her, Mr. Brooks.” She points her thumb behind her in gesture.

  “I could pick up the phone and call down there for you Mr. Brooks, except I can’t, on account I just done my nails and there still dryin’.” She utters her words in between gum chews.

  “Don’t worry about it Betty, I’ll just run down there and see for myself. You have a nice evening now.”

  “Oh thank you so much, Mr. Brooks. That’s very kind of you I’m sure.”

  The elevator doors open and there she is, standing before me with her arms burdened down; totally full of all sorts of photo paraphernalia.

  “You look like you’re in need of a Good Samaritan.” I offer my open arms to her for relief.

  She piles about half of her load onto my arms, expressing a grateful smile in appreciation.

  “Thanks. You came just in the nick of time. I didn’t know if I was going to make it or not.”

  “You ready to go on a top secret assignment with me?”

  “Sure. What kind of assignment?”

  “I need someone brave and courageous to take a picture of a murderer,”

  Her face jerks towards my direction. “What in the world do you mean? You mean a real murderer?” She smiles, the light in her eyes dancing in anticipation.

  “Yes, a real murderer. In fact he is the same man that tried to kill me on top of the Space Needle.”

  Kelly stops in her tracks. Her smiling face drops down to solemn stern, at the speed of a sharpened steel guillotine.

  “Come on. This is your chance to show your stuff.

  “Don’t worry; I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “I would feel a lot better, if I had more than just your male ego and conceit to protect me, Mr. Brooks” She leads the way into the elevator.

  §

  TWENTY EIGHT

  Dark gray clouds hang from the sky over Portland, inspiring a foreboding gloom upon our adventure. The gloomy sky has created a premature twilight. City streetlights begin to blink on as I drive through the busy boulevards of downtown Portland. Kelly is by my side preening herself in perpetual motion.

  Watching Kelly from out of the corner of my eye, I am amazed at her constant primping. Like some kind of exotic bird of paradise that continually preens itself.

  We drive in silence, absent of all conversation. The question of whether we are executing just another dangerous mission or committing suicide preoccupies both our minds. We have both been on adventures fraught with danger before. The question is whether we will return from this one?

  It begins to rain, as I finally turn off of First Street onto the cobblestone thoroughfare of Hong Kong Avenue. As we pull up to the curb to park, wandering sightseers quickly scurry atop the sidewalk, searching for some dry cubbyhole of cover from the raindrops. As I park, I can see where the alley street of Chin Hoi sneaks off into its own isolated darkness, about one block away.

  By the time Kelly and I reach the alleyway, the sky reprieves us of its falling rain. We leave the safety of the bustling Hong Kong Avenue, and walk into the alley of Chin Hoi.

  Although there are several garbage cans up and down the alleyway, garbage and large amounts of paper are strewn everywhere. Stacks of old crates filled with discarded rotting vegetables, line the sides of the alley. The old brick buildings that perimeter the alleyway, seem to jealously hinder most of the light to shine through, making it look more like a dungeon than an alleyway.

  Large drops of rainwater constantly drip, escaping from rusty hole-ridden gutters from the rooftops of the brick edifices. The dripping rain creates countless puddles of water we are forced to walk through, on the alley’s pave stone below.

  As we walk into this dismal city grotto made of brick, I hear a baby cry and a woman yell out somewhere.

  “Why don’t you turn that thing off, and do something worthwhile for a change?” The woman’s voice demands.

  “I took out the garbage. What else do you want from me?” A masculine voice replies in return.

  We finally reach the end of the alley and come upon a small porch made of concrete to our right, welcoming us with its three steps. On the door post of the entry, reads the address number twenty-nine and a half. We ascend the three steps and approach to a multi-colored metal door.

  A large rusty padlock hangs open on the latch ring next to the door. It looks as if the door latch and padlock have recently been left open.

  “I don’t think we should be here Matt. This looks more like a trap than a place to get an exclusive story and photos,” Kelly says warily.

  “Well, we’ve played the game this far. We might as well let him show his cards.”

  I knock on the big metal door; it resonates like an oil drum. I knock a second time, but I hear no sound of acknowledgment. I pull hard on the door, and it opens.

  I cautiously goosestep one foot ahead of the other as I enter in through the doorway, Kelly follows behind me as close as the buzz on a bee. We enter into a dismal place, absent of perceptible light. We stop and allow the pupils of our eyes to widen, that they might acknowledge any remaining diffused light.

  Slowly our eyes behold that which is before us. All walls and floor levels of this portion of the building have been gutted out, allowing us

  to look up four floors continuously to the rafters above. Gazing up four floors above me, I see two small windows perched atop the exterior wall, granting rays of dull light to invade the darkness of this vast space.

>   Great puddles of water have accumulated here and there on the floor of this brick bastion. After one hundred years of decay, legions of holes have rusted through the skin of the roof, like giant pores that perspire constant patters of rain.

  Each footstep we take on the cement floor resonate the sound over and over. It sounds as if the ceiling and wall are playing a game with one another, tossing the sound back and forth again and again, each time with a little less enthusiasm. When we stop walking, the echo of the walls and ceiling become silent, as if they await our next footsteps.

  I call out.

  “Hello!”

  “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, Matt. There’s nobody here. Let’s go.” Kelly sounds very apprehensive.

  “Hold on.” I hold up my hand in a sign of alert.

  “I think I hear something.”

  “Hello?” I repeat.

  “Mr. Brooks!” A faint voice reverberates off in the distance, as if speaking from a fifty-gallon drum.

  “Yes! Where are you?”

  “Come this way, Mr. Brooks.”

  It is hard to know exactly from where the ghostly voice has emerged from, so I make a guess and timidly follow the voice into a large dimly lit room. As we enter into the room, Kelly follows close behind me, holding onto the back of my coat.

  As I strain my eyes to examine my surroundings, I at once notice that a few bricks are missing from the middle of the exterior wall, creating a small air hole about the size of a piece of notebook paper. The light shoots straight across the room sideways like a laser.

  “Matt!” She whispers. “I don’t like this at all.”

  “I’m not real crazy about it myself, darlin’,” I remark.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassure her. “It’ll be all right.”

  We both stop somewhere in the middle of the room and begin to look around us, in an effort to peer into the dark secrecy of the chamber. All of a sudden, a small glow from a cigarette materializes from within one of the cavernous corners of the room.

  “Glad you could make it Mr. Brooks.” A raspy voice labors to speak out of the darkness.